


A Permanent Deduction

by Anna_Dromeda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, But several chapters in, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Metalcore, Murder Mystery, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Music AU No One Asked For, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson in Love, Teenlock, Two-Set Brett and Eddy, balletlock, first fic, mystrade, slowburn, still learning, still murder though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 41
Words: 199,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28521513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Dromeda/pseuds/Anna_Dromeda
Summary: John and Sherlock's romance has a lot of obstacles.Prejudice. Addiction. Murder.But with the help of their friends at boarding school, it's nothing they can't handle.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 170
Kudos: 54





	1. Grieving in the Key of G

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first ever fic on this platform. I'm still learning how to use it so this is basically a test run. I may take this down later because I don't want to post it until I'm at least 17 chapters in, but we'll see how this goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tiny update/disclaimer:
> 
> The things John's therapist says to him are things my former therapist said to me. Then I got a new one and am recovering BEAUTIFULLY. If you are struggling with depression, anxiety, PTSD, bipolar disorder or any of the vast myriad of things I have been diagnosed (and misdiagnosed) with, you owe it to yourself to care for your mental health. There is NO shame in seeing a therapist, John only feels this way now to leave room for character development later.
> 
> If you want a fic where two characters fall in love and are suddenly "fixed" this is not for you. J & S will have to care for themselves and seek help from professionals later. I don't romanticize mental illness because there is nothing glamorous to BE romanticized. 
> 
> Enjoy and be healthy!

John Watson sat at the kitchen table and tried to focus on the white-noise hum of the refrigerator. It was a beautiful afternoon, the smell of fresh-cut grass sailing through the windows and rustling the sun-bleached curtains. Maybe on any other occasion he would have listened to the lawn mowers or the sounds of fathers playing with their sons on the open pavement at the end of their street and found it calming, but now it only stirred regret.

The ticking clock frayed what was left of his nerves. John's eyes darted from his sister, Harry, to his adopted uncle, Major James Sholto, sitting on the other side of the table closest to the lime green sink. They all seemed to be thinking the same thing:

Hold it together, now. This is no time to fall apart.

Except that it was the perfect time to fall apart. Why wouldn’t anybody cry? People are  _ supposed _ to cry at death. If someone else broke first, then him crying would be alright. He  _ needed  _ to fall apart. If John didn’t fall apart now, he doubted he’d fall apart ever, no matter what happened. He’d be as apathetic as a serial killer. But John already went to therapy for panic attacks, and if he broke first, everyone he cared for would blame it on his  _ weakness,  _ and that wasn’t the Watson way, so he must hold together come Hell or high water. Uncle James had seen worse, been responsible for worse, during his many military campaigns, especially the last one which had permanently disfigured the right side of his face. But Harry? John? They’d never encountered anything so achingly permanent. It wasn’t fair they had to handle their first death like a soldier who’d seen hundreds. 

John breathed in a bid to still the tremors, but no dice. His lightspeed heartbeat wouldn’t slow, as though it were afraid he too would succumb if it beat at a normal pace. It was no shame, Mum said even though she really thought it was, that he had to visit a therapist. His body always thought he was under attack, the gear shift seemingly stuck in fight or flight, and his mind always at the ready with a contingency plan. John almost thrived when something bad  _ did _ happen because it meant he could finally live in the present moment. Ella, the therapist, said it was nothing more than General Anxiety Disorder, perhaps a panic disorder at the most, but something they could fix with time. Ella said lots of stupid shit like that, and not a single word brought calm to the ever buzzing fever pitch clawing away at his chest cavity. He sat listening to his mum on the phone with yet another faceless government agency as she made the final arrangements, and all he could recall from therapy were Ella’s supposedly comforting words.

The only permanent thing in life is death.

No fucking shit?

Cynthia Watson hung up the phone, careful to hold the stiff upper lip expected of all Watsons and their associates. She made her way into the dining room, dog tags with John’s father’s name, social, blood type, and religion clearly spelled out clanking together in her hand. The information was straightforward, cold. There was no point in burying him with them. God didn’t need to know Watson, Hamish, was an o positive Catholic, so Cynthia said, but maybe a part of her needed the reminder that said her husband had been real, a hero, alive. Maybe the dog tags were her weakness. 

Cynthia offered the tags to Harry first. She was the oldest, a year thirteen and a year older than John. It was right that she should have them. The gesture didn’t upset John. He’d always hated his middle name, but now for a different reason than all children are expected to hate their middle names. Now he couldn’t stand the idea of even seeing it spelled out. He wasn’t worthy of his father’s name, not like Harry, so stubborn and brave and put together. She’d go military for sure. She’d even cut her hair to the quick in anticipation, saying it was easier than becoming a full-time bunhead.

Harry took one look at the tags and broke. She pushed them away, lips trembling uncontrollably, and ran. John had never seen Harry run from anything before, and it shook him worse than the first day when he’d opened the door to Uncle James and two ranking officers dressed in starched suits. Harbingers of death, Uncle James called them, and none more so than him. Harry made a break for the garage and slammed the door so viciously the water damaged wood splintered.

Cynthia turned to John.

“But I can’t.  _ I can’t _ ,” he insisted, his voice teetering between fine and needing to join Harry in the garage.

Uncle James placed a hand on John’s shoulder with a look that said it wasn’t about wearing the tags or even being worthy of them. Someone had to step up and bear the cross, and it was always John anyway. Man of the house on and off since he was born, only now the title was forever. Permanent as death.

Fuck permanent. John had half a mind to say so, too, but he didn’t. He nodded, took the tags, and rode with his mother to the funeral home to make the arrangements. It was surreal, seeing death in such a cold, clinical light. Caskets lined the wall awaiting people in the city who didn’t even know it, and that changed the narrative to where  _ nothing _ seemed permanent. 

When John returned home, he heard, rather than saw, Harry shredding in the garage. Most sympathetic neighbors backed away when they heard the news, gave Harry full room to grieve in her rebellious, screamo fueled attempts to blow the roof off. Others insisted John talk to her. They were old. They had babies. They needed peace, and his poor mother, of course, could use it too. Bullshit, John wanted to say. Cythia Watson couldn’t care less about Harry’s playing and she never had. An entire marching band could storm through the kitchen with tanks shelling the cabinets in their wake and Cynthia wouldn’t notice. But John was a peacekeeper, damn him, and he said he would sort it out with Harry.

He didn’t bother knocking. That would be stupid. Instead, John walked into the garage and kicked the amp. Shoddy thing gave out straight away.

“Miss Darrowby is complaining again,” he announced, taking up his own guitar, a Martin electric and easily the nicest thing he owned. “Says you're upsetting Tybalt. Making all his hair fall out.”

Tybalt was Miss Darrowby’s cat, a foul beast with badly frayed ears and a crooked tail. It sat in her garden hissing at everyone and only left Miss Darrowby’s home to shit on the Watson’s morning paper.

Harry answered in a strained voice, hoarse from growling lyrics since nine o’clock that morning.

“One day we will get a dog, the meanest dog we can find, and name it Romeo, then that shall be the end of Tybalt.”

“She’d sue the fuck out of us, you know.”

“We’ll just play the dead dad card,” Harry shrugged. “Not like it’s good for anything else anyway.”

“Harry,” John started, but she was off.

“Well, not for you I imagine. I’m not going to uni, got no aspirations for it. You though? Is it true you’re going to Conan? Dad’s subsidies pay enough or is Uncle James going to cover the difference to ship you off to some posh school?”

Harry kicked the amp violently as ever, only now it puttered out. There was a painful shriek of feedback and then nothing, and Harry laughed. She didn’t stop laughing, not until she started crying instead.

She choked on tears and laughter. “Isn’t it fucking stupid?” she said. “First Dad, now this. That, that sodding amp,” she hiccuped, “has worked for twelve years, and it picks today to die? Who’s next? You or me?”

Harry stopped laughing then, crying too, and bit into her wrists as she sank to the floor, shaking softly. John knelt down and gathered her to his chest. Harry was the strong one. She wasn’t supposed to need comforting, but there he was doing it anyway because his life couldn’t get any more fucking bizarre if he gambled on it.

“I’m not going away forever, Harry,” he said, stroking the short tuft of hair that still remained on her scalp. “I want to be a doctor, someone you’ll be proud of. Someone dad would be proud of.”

“Why’s it matter? He’ll never know.”

“He might,” said John. “Might not. If I died tomorrow, my last thoughts wouldn’t be ‘Fuck Harry. Who cares what she does with her life?’ I’d want you to live and do your best, to keep moving for me, do something beautiful because I love you. Dad didn’t love you any less than I do, Pup.”

Pup was Harry’s “embarrassing” nickname, earned when she’d produced her first decent death growl at the age of seven. At sixteen, John’s weren’t as good not as hers had been then.

Harry sniffled. “Of course,” she joked. “He loved me more. Don’t know why Mum and Dad even bothered having a second child.”

John smirked and let Harry go.

“See? Practically born five-star General Harriet Watson straight out of the womb.”

John walked over to the amp and tapped it twice with his right foot. It hummed to life. Harry twisted her lips and glared playfully at him, in that you-twat-you-could-have-done-that-ages-ago look he so often received, whether it be for showing up almost late to a fight or telling her Clara, Harry’s girlfriend, was waiting for her in the bushes outside the house.

John threw the guitar strap over his shoulders and picked out the beginnings of his favorite song. John played clean and Harry played distortion.

“What do you say we shred the stripes off Tybalt?”

“And if Miss Darrowby calls the cops on us for disturbing the peace?” said Harry, her eyebrow lifted in surprise. John wasn’t often a rebel. Not sober, anyway.

He shrugged. “Well, if I ship myself off to a posh school, what’s she going to do about it anyway?”

The corner of Harry’s smile fell. “When are you leaving.”

John stopped playing. “The day after the funeral.”

Harry nodded and puffed her chest with fake optimism.

“Well then, guess we better get it in while we can. You growl lyrics?”

“I’d be insulted if you didn’t let me.”

And then they played, till an elderly French police officer came and threw open the garage door.


	2. The Poor Man's Brendon Urie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cupid Mike is about to hear his cue, bless him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about any of the things of which I am writing, but especially rugby which should come up soon. So if anyone wants to correct me when that pops up, feel free.

Chapter Two

Cynthia drove John to Conan. She woke Harry and John, neither of whom were actually sleeping, at 0500 hours and met James at his flat. The four of them rode silently, observing the waking countryside. The sky broke baby pink and vibrant orange, a stark contrast to the dew-kissed grasses and emerald moss peeking from behind the mists. For hours, John saw nothing but dilapidated houses, quaint little villages, large towns, then farm animals. Between the large towns and the farm animals he must’ve fallen asleep, but he couldn’t have, could he? No with the gnawing realization that he was really doing this. Really pulling a Harry and doing something so outlandishly outside of his comfort zone. He felt like puking, worried that the moment he set foot out the car he’d take one look at the rich kids, one look at his worn sneakers and thrift store luggage, and load back in the car with his tail between his legs, a shame and a waste of time to all involved. 

John steadied himself as quietly as he could, doing the breathing exercises. In through the nose four seconds, hold five, exhale out the mouth for eight like you’re blowing on a hot cup of tea.  
Harry noticed but didn’t say anything. Instead, she reached over and held his hand, giving a reassuring squeeze before placing his palm across the neck of his guitar. He wiped his thumb up and down against the grit of the strings. 

He hadn’t wanted to take the Martin. What if someone broke it? He’d never get another, not for another ten years at least when this doctor business started paying back, but Harry insisted. 

“Maybe those other blokes have more money than you, but so what? Money can’t buy talent.”

To Harry, that was that. With a quality guitar, a pair of second-hand converse worn till the soles popped on and off, and a notebook of original lyrics scratched and rewritten beyond recognition, what the hell else was there? What more did you need?

John saw Conan long before they pulled up, but he tried not to look at it, to take in the turrets, the hand-painted bricks, the large, astrological clocks, or any of the other castle-like features of architecture he didn’t even know the names for. The lawns were so neatly trimmed part of his tuition probably went to pay the grass not to grow. He gulped and started picking at the open strings of his guitar. 

“You know John, there have been at least two Conan-educated prime ministers,” said Cynthia as she unloaded the luggage. She was trying to make the best of it, losing her husband and now son, but she’d complained twice on the way over that, just because he’d be living in an all-male dorm, not to get any gay ideas, so John hadn’t any patience with her. She had no idea how much those ignorant, needless comments cut Harry. 

Harry made a sound like a horse through her lips. “What’s John want to be Prime Minister for anyway? He’s going to be the first doctor to moonlight as the poor man’s Brendon Urie.”

“The poor man’s Brendon Urie?”

“Please, John,” said Harry. “We’re trying to be realistic. You don’t have dark hair and cutting cheekbones and mysterious allure, and you never will.”

John rolled his eyes. Brendon Urie wasn’t even truly metalcore, but he was the only man Harry had ever been even remotely straight for. His posters helped keep up appearances for Harry’s mum.  
“Well, it’s not my fault you got all the good genes,” said John, and he really meant it. Harry was tall with green eyes, and sure she was a ginger, but she was the kind of ginger that made non-gingers think about dying their hair red. John felt positively boring in contrast. He was short. Real short. Shortest man in any social circle. The mics had to be adjusted for him between sets, and even then sometimes he felt like he was making love to a much taller anthropomorphic sound system since his face was always tilted up. It was embarrassing singing after his sister. He also had sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. No one ever did a double-take of him like they did Harry. No one ever truly saw him and saw something interesting. 

“James,” said John, making his way over to his uncle and sticking out his hand. “I want to thank you again, and not just for this, but for all the help you’ve been over the last week. I don’t know if Mum could’ve --”

“Nonsense,” said James. “It was the least I could do. You’re… going to make your father very proud.”

John inhaled, scrunched up his lip, and nodded once. “I will,” he promised. 

Uncle James patted his shoulder awkwardly, then froze. He appeared to be looking in the windows above the great tunnels like he’d seen a ghost. 

“Uncle James?” John asked.

“Nothing,” James tutted and smiled at him. “We best be off, don’t you agree, Cynthia?”

“Off? But we’ve only just got here!”

James gave Cynthia a look that said this is not up for discussion, and it sent the message. Cynthia made over John one last time, chiding him with more of her ignorant jokes about not being too lazy to frequent the girls' dormitories instead of slumming it with some posh bloke, before Harry shouldered in. 

She hugged him and punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t let any of these tossers look down on you, eh?” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief. 

John pretended to check his watch. “Aaaaand you went five hours and fifteen minutes without making a short joke. New record, really. I’m impressed.”

Harry smiled. “They’ll be impressed with you too, just like I am.”

Harry and the others loaded in the car and pulled away. Harry stuck her head out at the last moment and shouted for all of campus to hear, “Don’t take shit! And remember, money can’t buy talent!”

John watched as they disappeared, nothing but a blue speck on an emerald horizon. He sighed. 

Time to face the music, he supposed.

John turned to make for the school but screamed at an embarrassing pitch when he met the round face of one Mike Stamford. 

“Hello!” Mike said.

“Christ,” John said, clutching at his runaway heart.

“Sorry to startle you. Name’s Mike. Mike Stamford.”

The boy stuck out his hand. It was pudgy and covered in freckles. Mike wasn’t fat per se, but he could be when he was older. He was big-boned, tall, and stout, the definition of a gentle giant. 

John, realizing that he was being rude, quickly took the boy's hand and shook it a little too enthusiastically. 

“Hello, um, John. John Watson. Nice to meet you.”

“You’re here a little early,” said Mike. “Orientation for the new boys doesn't start for another hour.”

Didn’t it? Damn his mother and her over-prepared tendencies. This didn’t bode well. 

Mike, seeing the trepidation on John’s face, smiled and waved away his worries. 

“Don’t worry a bit. I saw you from the tower window, thought I’d help out a bit. Say, you don’t look like a year ten.” John could see Mike reevaluating that statement based on his height and was quick to cut him off before Mike could say anything embarrassing. 

“No, no. Quite right. I’m year twelve, actually.”

So it wasn’t common for boys to just pop up at Conan at random. John’s father’s death had been inconvenient in every sense, but at least it’d corresponded to the beginning of the school year. John hoped Mike would be the only one to notice. He definitely didn’t want to answer inconvenient questions. Oh, you see, my dad’s death in a fiery explosion at the hands of terrorists inspired me to live a better life and come to school at Conan, even though you twats have been here the whole time and probably your parents went too, and their parents, all of whom are still alive because not a single one of you has ever known grief or poverty a day in your lives. 

Nope. Nope. Definitely a topic to avoid, unless he wanted an even mix of pity topped with a fist to the face. 

John reached behind him where his guitar was hanging upside down by the strap, rubbing his calloused fingers over the cool strings. Mike caught this. 

“Oh, you’re a musician! Fancy that. My old roommate last year was a musician too. Peculiar bloke, real bugger to get along with, but maybe that’s just the musical type.” He paused. “Eh, actually, it was probably just him. Come along! The office isn’t open yet to give you your particulars or room assignments, but most of us are already settled. You can leave your things in my room, but bring the guitar. I’ll show you the music department. One of the finest in England, I imagine, or at least it’d have to be to live up to Sherlock Holmes’s standards,” Mike finished with a roll of his eyes. 

“Sorry,” John asked, “who?”

Mike just chuckled. “You’ll see,” and led John on a tour of Conan. 

***


	3. BRB, Gotta Write a Song About Cheekbones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John continues his baptism by fire and meets the guy NOT on the side of the angels.

The music department was the size of John’s entire school back home, with grand foyers and massive auditoriums, and an entire wing of nothing but soundproof rooms with walls specially designed for acoustics. 

John let out a low whistle. 

“Makes you proud to be English, doesn’t it?” said Mike, and John had to agree, although he got the distinct impression Mike was talking less about the department and more about a girl playing cello in the room across the hall. Tight, blonde ringlets bounced in time with the music to every sway of her body.

“Should I leave you and the, um,” John cleared his throat, “department alone?”  
“What? Oh, sorry!” Mike blushed and walked quickly down the hall. “That’s Betty Preston. She’s in our year. Gorgeous, that one.” Mike sighed and carried on. Poor guy. It sounded like he’d already played every hand he had. Perhaps that’s how he knew so much about the music department in the first place.

“The guitars are normally down here in the far room.”Mike continued. “It’s a favorite of theirs. That is, of course, if he hasn’t run them off yet.”

“Who?”

“Holmes. Who else? He can’t stand to play up the hall with the other violins. Says they give him a sodding headache even in a soundproof room. Something about ‘watching them handle their bows like pillocks.’”

John hoped he didn’t run into the Holmes fellow. Mike talked about him kindly enough, but he sounded like a real asshole the more he was brought up in conversation. 

“So, the guitars down here, do they play anything…” There was no soft way to approach it. “Good?”

“Oh yes,” said Mike as he opened the door for John. “They’re very good.”

“I’m sure they’re great, but what I mean is, what kind of music do they play?”

“The classics. Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven, all that sort.”

John felt his stomach twist. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“So… all acoustic, all classical? No punk? No rock? No metal?”

“Maybe on the weekends,” Mike said, “when they’re all trying to one-up each other at a party or some sort, but mostly they stick with what they know. Ah! Look, Dorian and Eliza Hardgrave. They practically run this floor.”

Mike waved out his arm like the twins were celebrities, no further introduction needed. And they were striking, pale with light blue eyes and platinum hair. Dorian stood a bit higher than Eliza and about a foot taller than John. Both had long hair and bored expressions. The only other great difference between the two was that Dorian held a guitar and Eliza held a white violin and bow. They barely glanced at John, but to be fair, they hardly looked at Mike either. 

John stuck out his hand, “Hi, my name’s John. This is my first year at Conan. Thought I’d check out your department. Mike is showing me around.”  
Neither Dorian or Eliza made a move to take his hand, and John stood awkwardly until he was forced to drop it or go on looking like an idiot.

Dorian and his sister side-eyed each other, smirking. John followed their gaze to his shoes, and up to his Martin still hanging from his back. 

John stiffened like he always did before a good brawl. If they’d just smirked at his shoes he would have shrunk away, but his Martin? His EM-18 Vintage 1979? His baby? Why didn’t they just spit on his grave and insult his sister while they were at it? 

“Something funny?” he asked. Mike shifted uncomfortably at his side. John’s sudden mood swing was almost as bad as Sherlock’s. He could feel it. Perhaps the two shouldn’t meet after all. 

“You,” Dorian said, his accent thick and French. Eliza giggled. 

“This is the Conan Classical Music Conservatory, not a dive bar,” she said. “You won’t get very far with that.” She motioned toward John’s guitar. “Even if you had an acoustic it would not be the same. You need a classical guitar.”

She stepped aside and let Dorian hold out his own. John didn’t go for it. 

“You will not take it?” Dorian sounded amused and adjusted so he could play something that sounded suspiciously like Pachelbel Canon or some other more complicated version of something that would play on a baby’s bassinet. Or at least, that’s the thought John would have liked to hold on to. Dorian played beautifully. There was no denying it, and the longer he looked the more he could hear the difference. The strings were nylon, not steel, the neck wider. It looked like something a Flamenco guitarist would play in the streets of Spain, and for all John knew, maybe it was nothing more than a Spanish guitar, but Dorian played it like it was made of pure gold.

John felt all the anger go out of him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still irritated. He could never fault a man for telling him the truth, even if he told it to him like a jerk.

“You’re good,” said John. “Really good. So I’m guessing classic doesn’t go metal here?”

Eliza shrugged and resumed her neutral expression now that she saw she couldn’t get a rise out of John. “Not for more than an amusing YouTube video, no.”

Dorian sidled past John without saying another word.

“Hey, where are you off to?” called Mike.

“It is eight o’clock,” said Eliza, rolling her eyes. 

And this simple answer was accepted by Mike with nothing more than a grunt. 

“Eight?” said John as the twins walked out the door. “Should we be leaving too?”

Mike checked his watch and smirked. “No. Listen, in about two minutes the bloke I told you about will stroll through that door and, well, sod it. You’ll see. Quick, hide your guitar!”

John scowled. He’d taken just as many barbs about his guitar as he cared to, and he wasn’t going to act ashamed of it for any rich bastard. 

“No, it’s not like that!” Mike recovered, reading John’s face. “Trust me. I want to see if he can figure it out.”

John’s face twisted into confusion. Did any normal people attend this school?

“Figure what out?”

“Figure out what you play! Hurry.”

Though he found the whole thing bizarre, John slid his guitar into an empty case that was altogether too big for it and probably held a cello or something, and waited.

Right on the mark, the door flung open. A boy walked in, marching along at a vicious pace like he was trying to lose the much shorter girl beside him, but John didn’t notice her for more than a second. What he did notice was how different this boy looked, and that he looked good. John’d never had a thought like that about another bloke before, but he chalked it up to this particular bloke’s unique features. Anybody who looked at him would have a thought like that, surely.

He was tall. Everybody was to John, but even by an average person’s standards the boy was tall for his age. His face was long, his nose a little too high up on his face and turned up slightly at a soft angle. He had the most pronounced cupid’s bow John had ever seen in a man’s lips, not that’d John ever actively noticed that sort of thing before, and his light blue eyes contrasted sharply against his translucent skin and dark mop of curls. The only negative thing John could say about him was that he didn’t look like he ate enough. Then again, that could have just been his cheekbones. 

“Well, anyway, Sherlock, what I’m trying to ask,” carried on the mousy-haired girl following on his heels, “would you like to have coffee?”

John blushed and tried to look busy examining a stray tuner. Mike either knew something he didn’t or didn’t have the sense to look away. Clearly this young woman was in the middle of shooting her shot with the most intriguing looking person on the face of the planet. Wasn’t he worried about embarrassing her, giving the couple an audience like this?

Sherlock barely glanced at her as he set down his violin case and removed his gloves and coat. Wasn’t it too hot out to dress like that? Maybe he just liked walking around in a long coat, looking cool and mysterious with his collar popped. 

When he finally replied to her, he said, “Yes, two sugars, one cream, but don’t bring it to me until after I’m finished. I don’t wish to be bothered.” 

The girl’s face fell. Molly, John later learned she was called, nodded crisply like this wasn’t the shittiest rejection to a coffee invite ever cooked up and left the room. John thought he heard her breathing erratically as though she might cry. He felt a little outraged on her behalf. 

“You do know she was asking you out, right?” 

Sherlock didn’t regard him, not for several beats. 

“Hmm? Oh, well, human error,” he shrugged and went back to applying rosin to his bow. He chose to forgo a shoulder rest. 

“You could always go catch her,” continued John. 

Sherlock scoffed. “I didn’t mean my error. I meant hers.”

John found he quite agreed. If money can’t buy talent, then good looks can’t fill in for a missing personality.

Mike cleared his throat. “John, I’d like you to meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is John Watson. He’s --”

“New, I know.”

Sherlock took off on an impressive rise and fall of notes before screeching to a halt, as though he’d just now noticed John, and more than how the Hardgrave twins had noticed him. When the twins looked at John, he’d felt belittled. When Sherlock looked at John, he felt absolutely naked.

“Electric or acoustic?”

“Sorry?” John said, glancing at Mike who looked absolutely delighted. Had Mike texted Sherlock about him? Was this some elaborate hazing prank?

“Electric or acoustic guitar?” Sherlock repeated, like John was the biggest imbecile in the world.

John was just about to answer when Sherlock cut him off. 

“No, don’t tell me! I want to figure it out for myself. You’ve got calluses all over your fingers, a few burns too. Interesting. Suggests you’ve been working with some shoddy equipment, possible electrical fire. Ah, so it is an electric guitar. I can’t imagine you playing anything else, though the curve of your muscle might suggest you’re decent at drums. No, guitar is your main instrument. I’d say roughly eleven years? You must be rather good at this point, however, you’re new here. I’ve never seen you around before. Military haircut, proud stance, and is that the indent of dog tags I see under your shirt? Too young to have those yourself. Must be a parent, father most likely. Suddenly here? You don’t dress like you’ve been in schools like Conan before. Sudden death of a parent maybe? Combat? Subsidies wouldn’t cover all of that, not Conan. Some gracious benefactor making up the difference? Friend of your father, I imagine. Ranking military. Right-handed for sure. Worn clothing on the first day of school? You’re wearing hand-me-downs, no doubt. From your older brother, yes, straight down to his shoes. Converse, angry writing scribbled into the sides. Band names? Looks heavy metal in nature, or perhaps punk. Low income, outraged on Molly’s behalf, on the lookout for trouble but doesn’t care to stick his neck out. Tendencies of an older brother? Maybe a younger sister? Insufficient data for that last one…”

Sherlock trailed off, looking frustrated and leaving John speechless.

There’s no way Mike could have texted him all of that, and John deleted his social media accounts two years ago. He didn’t use anything that wasn’t YouTube or affiliated with managing his sister’s Facebook page for her band, Twisted Lip, and Harry did most of that. He definitely hadn’t told anyone about his father. How’d he know all of that? It was… It was… 

Amazing, but John wasn’t going to say it.

He just stood there with his mouth hanging open.

“See?” said Mike, elbowing him. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in the equivalent of a noncommittal shrug and took off playing. It was sad and somehow uplifting at the same time. The way he handled his bow was so smooth like it required no effort at all. It wasn’t like any piece John had ever heard, not that he listened to classical music, but he couldn’t help wondering if Sherlock had composed it himself.

“How did you know all of that?” said John.

Sherlock didn’t stop playing, but he quietened, softening his strokes. 

“I observed you,” he said simply. “Your hands are covered in calluses, many from manual labor, but the tips of your left fingers are especially built up, and at angles that suggest difficult to execute techniques caused by years of maneuvering a fretboard. For that kind of skill, it would take an ordinary person years of practice. Most lower to middle-class people, as suggested by your clothing, aren’t interested in classical music or classical instruments, and of course there are the burns. Amp troubles?”

Sherlock stopped playing and waited for John to answer. 

John hesitated. He felt his cheeks redden.“Am I really that easy to read?”

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. He picked up his melody right where it’d left off.

“All people are easy to read. I wouldn’t worry. All of them see, but they don’t observe.”

Sod it. “That… Was amazing.”

And it was, John thought. It really was. 

Sherlock froze, only this time his eyes shot open and he jerked his head towards John, surprised like he didn’t know what to make of him. He stood like that, bow hovering above the A string mid draw, for a good couple of minutes. He didn’t so much as blink. To say it was unnerving would be an understatement. Even Mike stopped looking so damn pleased with himself and began fidgeting. 

John shoved his hands in his jeans pocket and shifted from foot to foot. Glancing between Mike and Sherlock, he finally said, “Are you okay?” John tried to remember anything he knew about checking for aneurysms. Sherlock’s pupils weren’t dilated. No side of his face was drooping. Was it too soon to tell?

John snapped his fingers in front of his eye. He flinched when Sherlock suddenly replied.

“--Fine! Fine, yes. Sorry,” he coughed, looking down. It almost gave the impression that he was shy, something John knew, from the six minutes he’d been in his presence, that Sherlock couldn’t be. 

“Did I say something wrong?” John asked.

Sherlock went back to playing, but it was a beat before his bow was as steady as before. 

“No, it’s just ‘Amazing!’ isn’t what people normally say, to my deductions, I mean.”

Sherlock began playing viciously like it’d cover up the awkward spaces.

“Well,” John half-shouted over the music, “what do people normally say?”

Sherlock paused the song for one beat.

“Piss off.”

He went back to playing.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, not you!” He finally gave up and lowered his violin. “To me, obviously.” Sherlock sounded frustrated, but then as John and Sherlock stared at each other and Mike stared at them, suddenly back at it with that shit-eating grin of his, John and Sherlock burst out laughing. 

John shook his head. He stilled his laughter on the back of his fist. 

“You, know, he said, I have to tell you, Mike hasn’t been singing your praises.”

“Sounds like he’s been giving accurate information then.”

“No, no,” John held up his hands, “I mean, he made it sound like you were impossible to get on with.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, John.”

“But you seem great!” John kept on, derailing Sherlock’s train of thought for a second time, but he didn’t notice. “I mean, you were really only wrong about two of those -- What did you call them? -- Deductions. And really, you were almost entirely spot-- ”

“Wrong?” Sherlock was back at full attention. “Wrong twice? Where? Which ones?”

Sherlock looked almost angry, glaring John up and down like the TSA scanning for bombs. 

“My sister,” said. John.

“You have a little sister.” Sherlock said it like a fact, as if he knew better than John.

“Nope,” said John, torn between feeling defensive or feeling amused. “I am the baby of the family.”

“But your clothes…” Sherlock trailed off. How often could this guy do that”

“Even the hairs are short!” he said. “An older sister. Tomboy. I should have noticed, I should have seen! Blast! The handwriting on the shoes is feminine.” 

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up over it,” John said. “Nobody’s perfect.”

At that Sherlock only grumbled. He put away his violin, apparently no longer in the mood for practice. 

“You shouldn’t join the conservatory,” Sherlock stated. He zipped his violin case with a scowl.

John had whiplash from the man. “Sorry, what?”

“You shouldn’t. You’d never be happy here.”

John scoffed. “Just because you got a few things wrong--”

“Two things,” corrected Sherlock. “And no. Contrary to popular belief, I do not think everything is about me.”

He stalked towards the door. 

“You don’t like classical. You’ve no passion for it, and I don’t think you ever will. Doesn’t line up with your aspirations. You’re also easily angered and prone to a good brawl, something I don’t recommend you do around instruments worth more than all our kidney’s combined.”

Sherlock threw on his coat and popped the collar.

Drama queen, John thought.

“Room 221, Baker Hall.”

“What?” John really did feel like an idiot now. He’d squawked “What?” at least seven times now like a parrot that only knew a single word.

The corner of Sherlocks, mouth twitched as he tugged on his gloves. He took up his case and flung open the door. 

“Useful information for later,” he said.

And away he went, his dark coat trailing behind him like a Bond villain. 

John began, “Is he always…?”

“All the time.”

And the day was just getting started.


	4. The Cocaine Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets to be a badass and then he gets to break down.
> 
> Possible triggers: drug use

Chapter Four

Sherlock POV

As a general rule, Sherlock didn’t pick fights if his violin was within a fifty-foot radius. However, since he often didn’t realize he was picking fights, he was on his fifth violin. At a certain point, his parents bought insurance, but that was proving just as costly after the sixth repair on his Yamaha, and that was two violins ago. At this rate, his father would never trust him with the second Stradivarius. Sherlock couldn’t blame him. After the incident with the first Stradivarius, an event so ghastly it’d been all but deleted from his mind palace, he felt vile just looking at a quality instrument. Still, the only thing more bothersome than a call from Father and a lecture from Mycroft on responsibility was boredom. Boredom ate at him like he was live prey, and so trouble didn’t find Sherlock. He chased it.  
Which was how he found himself pressed against the wall of the astronomy tower and gazing down at yet another shattered violin.

Anything for a case, he supposed. 

He mentally rolled his eyes. Anderson was prattling off some inconsequential threat, Sally Donovan was jeering him on, and Sherlock took the opportunity to text the client without looking. It was all arranged. Students hadn’t been on campus for more than a week, yet Sherlock had successfully baited both Donovan and Anderson on no less than three separate occasions. Donovan, as it turned out, was the better fighter, but she didn’t get involved when Anderson was present, not wanting to emasculate the man with whom she was so obviously having an affair. 

For God’s sake, how long can this man talk? Sherlock needed to speed things along.

Sherlock slammed his forehead into Anderson’s nose, sending him reeling. Sherlock pushed him, turned his back slightly to Anderson’s front, and waited for him to take the bait. Anderson went for the headlock without a second thought.

Predictable.

Sherlock turned his head in and sniffed Anderson’s armpit before his airway was cut off.

He remained hunched over for appearances. He had about 21 seconds to kill, give or take a few since Anderson’s girlfriend and Donovan’s boyfriend didn’t have as long a stride as him. When he felt he’d held off long enough, Sherlock released the arm holding Anderson’s forearm from his throat, used the extra force to slam his fist into Anderson’s crotch, and then when Anderson’s was doubled over and his hold loosened, flung that same arm up over Anderson’s shoulders and pushed him away with a gouge to the left eye. He then swept his feet and helped him on his way down with an elbow to the right temple.

He was out cold. Donovan gasped. In all the times she’d attacked Sherlock, he never fought back. She didn’t know that he could. Sally wasn’t as dumb as Anderson and realized that a man who not two nights ago she’d beaten to a pulp didn’t suddenly gain martial arts skills over night, so she wasn’t surprised when Andrew rounded the corner, but she was very surprised to see her best friend, Anderson’s girlfriend, in tow.

“Got it!” Sherlock straightened up panting. He straightened his scarf and readjusted the collar of his coat.

“Proof?” asked Lina. She was from a family of serial adulterers, her father currently on wife number five. She suspected Anderson of cheating but worried it was paranoia from her youth. When Andrew, Donovan’s boyfriend, approached Sherlock with the same problem, he pieced it together straight away. However, Lina was a loyal friend and refused to accept Sally’s betrayal without proof.

“Proof? What the hell are you on about?”

But the jig was up and Sally knew it. It didn’t matter how careful she was, Sherlock Holmes would see. The freak always did.

Sherlock knelt above Anderson and lifted his arm, pointing towards the concussed man’s pits. 

“Anderson,” Sherlock announced, “is wearing men’s deodorant.”

Sally sputtered. “Of course he is! He’s a man!”

“Yes,” answered Sherlock, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “But you’re wearing the same kind. You were two nights ago, and I’d wager you are now.” He turned to Lina and Andrew. “Go on, take a whiff if you like. Smell her too. Even you lot ought to be able to sort this out.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“No,” said Andrew, speaking up for the first time. 

From anyone else it would have been a ridiculous request, but Sherlock Holmes had a school-wide reputation. Some people said he could read minds. Others said he spent his nights reading government files on students and staff. He knew things. Even if he was a prick, he knew things. 

“Come on, Sally,” Andrew motioned, but she didn’t respond. She only stood there shaking her head with her eyes watering.

Andrew wiped his hands down his face and paced. “Jesus, with Phillip? Really?”

Phillip? Who’s Phillip? Sherlock supposed Anderson must have had a first name if that wasn’t already it, but he’d always imagined it’d be something like Richard, easily shortened for Dick.

Lina piped in with a, “You were my best friend! I trusted you!” and the usual rubbish people spit once they’ve opened their eyes. The girls had a fantastic row. Sherlock leaned back against the wall and watched. It was satisfying seeing Donovan on the receiving end of blows. He never hit women if it could be avoided. It was the only tempting thing about Donovan. 

She rounded on him once Andrew broke up the fight.

“You!” Her brain struggled to come up with a vicious enough clap back. “You freak! You psychopath! You really get off on it don’t you? Airing people’s secrets like it's any of your business?”

“Oh, like it wasn’t my business?” snapped Andrew.

“I was going to tell you! And you,” she stepped desperately towards Lina, but the girl shrank away.

Sally had the nerve to look hurt. 

At around this time, Anderson came to, and Sally raced to him. She gathered his arm over her shoulder and helped him up, but he didn’t stay standing long. He cursed and flinched when he saw Sherlock, and again when he saw Lina.

“Lina,” he staggered forward.

“Save it! I don’t want to hear it!”

“But darling if you’d just listen! Sally doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s just a casual fling!”

Both girls looked affronted.

Sally threw his arm off and let him fall to the floor. She glared down at him. 

“You were never going to leave her.” 

It was a statement, not a question. What a fool she’d been. She stalked away.

Anderson whipped his head from one girl to the other, unsure who to pursue. 

“Better go after her,” said Lina, ripping a bracelet from around her wrist. She flung it at his feet. “I wouldn’t take you back if Hell froze over.”

Then Andrew punched him in the nose.

Anderson staggered back, spitting blood on the remnants of Sherlock’s violin. 

He elbowed past Sherlock on the way out. “One day you’re going to have secrets, Freak, and then I’ll only be too happy to expose you as well.”

Anderson, with as much dignity as he could muster, ran from the tower’s shadow towards the figure of Donovan far in the distance. The two really deserved each other.

“Our agreement?” said Sherlock. 

Lina scoffed, but reached into her pocket anyway, drawing out a long, black envelope. 

“I better not get in trouble for this,” she said, handing it over. 

“You won’t,” said Sherlock, turning on his heel. “Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. I would so hate to give Anderson ammunition.”

Andrew placed his arm protectively around Lina. Odd. Already so recovered. 

“She won’t say anything and I won’t either.”

Sherlock smirked. “Good.”

He made his way back to Baker Hall, boredom back to clawing at him every step of the way. 

Soon, though. Soon he’d find relief. 

He locked himself in his room and dug around in his drawer for a syringe. He emptied the envelope on the counter and flicked on a bunsen burner. The sound of bubbling chemicals soothed him as he rolled up his sleeve, counting the track marks for distraction. He prepared the usual concoction, dissolving the powder in water and preparing to shoot up. He never knew how long the euphoria would last. Five minutes? An hour? Devastatingly short to say the least, but God, anything to escape this dullness.

It must be nice not being him. So easily entertained. 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned.  
“Not real,” he said, rolling over in his bed. 

“Then why do I come to you so crystal clear?”

“Fuck off!” Sherlock threw a beaker. It shattered against the far wall, leaking a stinking experiment. “You’re ruining my high.”

Not-Real Mycroft sat down. The bed sank under him.

Sherlock glanced at him. “You’re fat. You’re absolutely obese.”

“I would be, wouldn’t I?” said Not-Real Mycroft. (Very not-real. You’re being paranoid, Sherlock.) “After all, I’m however you imagine me to be.”

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and tugged his lips, a kind of face shrug. “You did gain an awful lot of weight after that escapade in Belgium,” said Sherlock, stressing the country’s name. “The sweeties too much for you? Most dangerous man in England has all the willpower of--” 

“An addict?”

Silence. 

“I’m not angry with you.”

Sherlock snorted. “What? Just disappointed today?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, not for a moment. 

“It’s such a waste, Sherlock.” 

“I can handle it. I’m a high-functioning addict as well as a high-functioning sociopath. I excel no matter what the endeavor.” 

Not-Real Mycroft placed his hand on his shoulder and he flinched. Dear God, that felt real. No, Mycroft was in Stockholm. Legwork was sometimes part of the job. Not real. Very, very, very not real. Mycroft wasn’t here. Mycroft didn’t care. No one did. Just Sherlock against one big, blundering, boring world. 

“But I do care. I love you.”

“No!” Sherlock shot up and wiped his lab table clean to the floor in one shattering motion. He flung what didn’t break against the wall until he had nothing left to throw. He looked around the room and Not-Real Mycroft was gone. 

He was alone. He always was. 

He curled up on his bed, breathing slowly. 

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

He would have played his violin, but then he remembered that was gone too.


	5. Fifteen Gentlemen and a Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets DA BOYS! Aaaaaand Sherlock's at it again at the end.
> 
> *Preview of the next chapter*
> 
> "Where'd you learn to drive like that?" said John, clutching at his runaway heart.
> 
> Sherlock hesitated, then breathily, "... My housekeeper taught me."

John collected his particulars from the head office and looked over his classes. Anxiety twisted in his stomach. All upper course, all leaning towards the medical field. Chemistry, Anatomy, Calculus, along with the regular core classes. 

“Blimey!” Mike read over his shoulder. “You must be a proper genius!”

But he wasn’t. He really wasn’t. John was smart, yeah, but calculus was above his skillset. That’s the point of classes though, right? To teach you something you don’t already know?

Mike kindly went along with John on the tour, towering over all the year tens who were about the same height as John. He and Mike hung in the back, setting themselves apart. The tour was mainly a history lesson. Anything else John could have learned from a map, but Mike leaned down occasionally to whisper something useful in his ear like, “That window over there? It’s the one we use to sneak out after hours,” or “No one uses the jacuzzi in the aquatic center. Xiomara Freeman walked in on Lawrence Radley jerking off in there, and it's been blacklisted ever since.”

Well, mostly useful information. 

Eventually even Mike’s improv got boring and John began sifting through his paperwork. He read over his housing arrangements. He was in Baker Hall, Room 221.

Wait… 

John went back to an earlier conversation. 

He recalled Sherlock’s smirk. “Room 221, Baker Hall. Useful information for later.”

John skimmed the housing papers and, sure enough, he was paired with Sherlock Holmes.

He’d been played. 

“Mike,” said John waving the offending document, “did you know about this?”

Mike, to his credit, had the decency to look caught and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Well, I wasn’t sure, but it seemed likely.”

“So… The whole dragging me to the conservatory with an electric guitar, that was just a setup?”

“Don’t be annoyed,” said Mike apologetically. “It wasn’t planned. No one can plan around Holmes. We just wanted to see if the two of you got on.”

“We? So Sherlock knew about it?”

“Oh, no! Not him, though he did seem to know about it… But he knows lots of things he shouldn’t and doesn’t seem to think anything about it, so you shouldn’t either. I mean “we” as in me and the lads.”

“The lads?”

Mike nodded. “The boys in our year, rugby lads mostly. One of them interns in office and saw you were coming. Anderson, that’s Phillip, our Hooker, put in for a last-minute room change a few days ago. He and Sherlock can’t stand each other, and normally we ignore it but he’s been beating him senseless lately--”

“Sherlock beat Anderson?”

“Goodness, no. Anderson beat up Sherlock. He had to go to the san twice this week, but of course, he wouldn’t admit it was Anderson.”

John scowled. He could never abide a bully. 

“Anyway, the change wouldn’t have gone through except Greg volunteered. Sherlock might be a shit sometimes, but even he doesn’t deserve to live somewhere he doesn’t feel safe. Greg gets on with Sherlock about as well as anyone can, but he is a trial. I swear, Greg gets a new grey every time he interacts with the man. So when we saw you were coming in, and you being the most likely to be sorted with him since you’d have no preference, we shuffled and roomed Greg with me and Anderson with Tyler.”

How awful that must be, thought John, knowing everyone’s going out of their way to avoid you. The way Mike talked, Sherlock was a tolerated nuisance. Incomprehensible. Sherlock Holmes was clever, much cleverer than anyone John had ever met, and John wondered if that wasn’t the real reason for this Anderson’s attacks. John was about to say so too, when suddenly a large, sweaty palm clapped down around his mouth. 

He was jerked into the shadows behind a large oak and bit as hard as he could.

A voice yelped, “Mother fuck--” before it was cut off by Mike’s laughter, and by the boy who’d pulled back Mike.

Tyler Briggs, the boy John bit, shook his hand cursing. “Jesus, remind me never to sneak up on you, Watson,” said Tyler before slapping John on the back like he’d known him all his life. 

“What happened to stealth?” asked the other boy, Ryan Gellert, laughing. “Old man Beckenridge is coming over!”

And sure enough, the aged schoolmaster was stalking from among the throng of young boys calling out, “Stamford, Gellert, Briggs! You come out here at once!”  
But the boys were off, and John found himself running too, even though he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. 

“Go, go, go!” Ryan hopped on a bike and pedaled furiously. Mike took up too much of the seat and John was thrown on the back of the third bike. Tyler rode standing while John balanced precariously in the seat with his legs wide to the side looking perfectly ridiculous. 

“Welcome to Conan, Watson!” said Ryan, the dark boy with a fade bleeding into an explosion of curls whisked back in the wind. He pedaled along John and Tyler’s left while Mike took the right.

“How are you finding yourself?” Mike asked, full of mirth.

“Honestly?” asked John as they sailed across the open lawn through the sprinkler system. He’d never been impulsive, not outside of a brawl, and he found he enjoyed it. “Bloody fantastic!” 

The boys pedaled down an open highway past fields of grazing sheep until they came under the archway of a village. The gang slowed, turn-braked abruptly, and slapped each other on the back about a kidnapping gone well. The village was huge. Traditional, thatched roofs and cobbled pathways gave it a quaint Tudor feel, but modern office buildings and banks and small factories seemed to pop up at random, towering over the old. It was all so snug together John felt he could get lost. 

The boys stopped in front of a pub called The Crown Diamond. It sat caddy-corner and asymmetrical up the side of a hill, tufts of green moss sprouting in patches on the roof. Mike burst through the door singing Paul McCartney, “You say it’s your birthday! It’s my birthday too!” and a bushel of boys crowded at a back table cried back, “They say it’s your birthday, we’re gonna have a good time!” All the boys wore rugby jerseys, some bleached white and others painted with grass strains. They were all slopping around pints and gathered around a fit, rugged-looking boy whose dark hair was peppered with premature greys. John didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to judge this was the birthday boy. The cone-shaped hat lined with streamers gave that away. 

“Guys! What took you so long? I thought you weren’t coming,” said the boy, standing up.

“Calm your tits, Greg,” said Tyler. “We brought you the best gift of all, a roommate for Sherlock Holmes!”

Everyone at the table sighed in exaggerated relief. 

“You mean this is John Watson? Pleasure meeting you!” said Greg, slapping his hand into John’s. 

The party went on, singing slurred bars of “Birthday” at random intervals. Bit early for day-drinking, but John wouldn’t begrudge a man on his birthday.

“Paul McCartney,” hummed John. “Nice.”

“John’s a musician,” said Mike.

“And a regular hellcat,” piped Tyler. “Damn near bit my hand off!”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it, someone taking a bite out of you,” said Ryan, and the team burst into fits of laughter once more.

Greg introduced him to everyone on the team, thirteen besides Greg himself and Anderson who hadn’t shown up.

“Rugby is a hooligan’s game,” started Greg.

“Played by fifteen gentlemen!” finished Stephen, the boy introduced as the tighthead prop. 

Ryan guzzled down a whole pint and burped. 

“Do you play, Watson?” 

John chewed absently at the inside of his cheek. He knew enough about rugby in the general sense, had even played it in primary school, but it’d been such a long time ago he couldn’t even remember the positions, aside from the most well known. 

“I haven’t played in a while,” John answered honestly.

“You’ve got to!” said Ryan, slamming his glass on the soaking table. “And that’s that!”

“Not if you want to win,” muttered John. 

“Oi!” said Greg. “We win enough!”

“Yeah, once last season when Greg passed the ball,” said Tyler.

Ryan blew out his lips, “Only ‘cause he thought he was passing to himself!” 

Everyone traded friendly barbs, drinking and eating between watching a game on the big screens. So far, everyone at Conan was nice. Even the Hardgrave twins were okay. John hadn’t met a single person he didn’t like. He was so enamored in the excitement, in the way the team provided vulgar commentary on the game, he didn’t notice a chair sliding next to him.

“Anderson!” cried Greg, breaking few people's attention. Only Greg, Ryan, and Tyler cared enough to acknowledge him. 

“Thanks for inviting me,” Anderson oozed. 

From the look on Greg’s face, he was most certainly not invited. 

“What the hell happened to you?” 

Anderson muttered under his breath where no one could hear him. His left eye was scalding red and the right side of his face was black and blue.”

Tyler whistled low. “You look like a bloody flag. Donovan have enough of you, or did Lina finally tell you to piss off?”

“It looks like she did more than tell him,” scoffed Ryan.

“Holmes!” Anderson slammed his fist on the table. The whole team stopped to look at him now. 

“Holmes?” said Greg. “Sherlock Holmes did,” Greg struggled for a word and then just motioned, “that to your face?”

“You should mail him a thank you card,” said Tyler. 

Anderson fumed. “It’s not funny! The sodding git set me up! Sally won’t even speak to me, and now Andrew’s with Lina. I’ll kill him!”

“Looks like that would be ambitious of you,” muttered Mike before he took a swig of his beer. 

“He’s mental. Mental!” Anderson cried. “The faggot’s a psychopath. He nearly killed me. You mark my words, one day we’ll all be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”

The table fell quiet, then John tagged in for the first time. “Your body? Can I sign the thank you card?”

Anderson gaped. “And who the hell are you?”

Mike swatted John so hard on the back he nearly fell from his seat and declared, “John Watson, the man who just roasted your arse, that’s who!” and the whole team fell into an uproar. 

Anderson shot up from the table barking retorts, but the team drowned him out. It wasn’t until something changed in Anderson’s face that John really looked at him. He followed Anderson’s eyes to the window. At first he didn’t see what he was staring at, but then he gasped. There, across the street inside a pawn shop bursting at the seams, stood Sherlock Holmes.

And he was standing over a dead body checking its pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red-Headed League, anyone? 
> 
> The pawnshop is called The Field Bazaar, for anyone who's a fan of the OG stories.
> 
> *Preview of the next chapter*
> 
> "Where'd you learn to drive like that?" said John, clutching at his runaway heart.
> 
> Sherlock hesitated, then breathily, "... My housekeeper taught me."


	6. The Red-Headed League & The Cupcake Brigade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock busts up a bank robbery and John takes a walk on the wild side. That is, before the Cupcake Brigade arrives on the scene. 
> 
> They also kinda sorta steal an old lady's car, but I digress.

Anderson took off like a rocket. 

John jerked his head around the table to see if anyone else had noticed, but the team was deep in the next play, Tyler and Ryan were worse for wear and close to getting thrown out of the pub, and Mike was too busy sighing up at the second-floor balcony where Betty Preston was sitting with her friends. Greg might have asked what was the matter, but by then John was long gone. He threw down a couple of bills and ran into the street, narrowly avoiding an overzealous cab.

“I knew it! I knew you’d snap eventually. You’ve done it now, Holmes.”

John darted into The Field Bazaar and slammed the door behind him. He pawed for a drawstring to lower the curtains but didn’t find one. 

“John?” Sherlock leaned around Anderson. “Great. Is everyone here, or do I need to wait for your mothers to arrive as well?”

John slid to the dead man on the floor. No, not dead. The shallow rise and fall of his chest showed that he was merely unconscious. John’s body drooped with relief. 

“This is no laughing matter, Freak!” shouted Anderson. “I’m going for the police!”

“Quiet, Anderson,” Sherlock said calmly. “You’ll lower the IQ of the whole street.”

And before John could tell him the pawnbroker was alive, Anderson hoofed it, shouldering past Greg Lestrade on the way out.

Greg pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “What’s he talking about? Why do you need the police?” Greg’s father was an officer, though not in this town, and he took all matters regarding law enforcement very seriously.

John started to explain (though he wasn’t sure just what the hell he was supposed to be explaining) when Sherlock shushed him.

“Why are we--” started John, motioning to the red-headed, rotund pawnbroker lying on the floor.

“Shush! Shut up, shut up!” whisper-shouted Sherlock. He tip-toed lightly towards the basement door. “Do you hear that?” Then a wide grin broke out across his face. It was terrifying. 

“Oh, this is Christmas!” He slapped his hands together. “Either of you lot any good in a fight?”

Both John and Greg answered at the same time.

“Absolutely.” “Not on your life.”

Greg looked at John in shock. “You can’t seriously be thinking of going along with this?”

“Then stay here if you’re going to get in the way!” Sherlock snapped. He took John by the elbow, holding his finger to his lips as they hurried down the stairs. Greg, against his better judgement, followed suit. The basement was ancient, probably older than the whole building, with chipping walls and water leaking from the pipes in the ceiling. Someone had set it up as a darkroom for photography with lackluster photos of the village bank hanging all over the place. It reeked of chemicals.

Sherlock ushered the boys under the stairs into the heavy cobwebs. Greg was scared shitless of spiders, but he didn’t want to look a fool in front of a joke like Sherlock Holmes or the new boy, John Watson, and so he just whimpered until Sherlock smacked him in the gut.

“Listen,” said Sherlock. “Look.” 

He pointed to the trays of film developer in the middle of the room. That’s when John noticed too. Every two seconds the developer rippled. John listened till he heard a distant clanging, like someone beating against a wall. The sound grew louder and louder until John could discern it was coming from behind the wall. 

Sherlock stepped out and pressed his ear against the wall, tapping his knuckles as he went. He yanked a marker out of his coat pocket and placed two dashes about a yard away from another. He went back to the boys under the stairs, took them both by the arm, and placed one at each dash.

“Sherlock, what are we--”

“For God’s sake, John, be quiet.”

He turned to Greg. 

“Your father is a police officer?”

“Um, yeah?”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and tossed Greg a pistol like it was nothing more than a pack of cigarettes. “Use it if you have to,” he said. “They’re armed, but their hands will be full.”

“Armed?” squawked Greg, a little louder than he ought to. “Who’s armed.”

Sherlock shimmied close to John with a smile on his face. “The Red-Headed League.”

An arm burst through the thin plaster, a hollow in the wall, and out came three men toting heavy bags and loaded down with backpacks. Sherlock didn’t waste a moment, and neither did John. John jabbed the last man out in the jaw, belted him in the gut, kicked out his knee, and then hammered him with his own bag. 

“Jesus! That weighs a ton. What’s in it?”

Sherlock took down his own criminal, taking him in a standing armbar and snapping his wrist.

“Gold bars.”

“Oh?” John ducked. He had criminal number two since Lestrade was still standing there like an idiot. “That’s nice.” 

A shot rang out and the robber fell to the floor. 

John blinked at Lestrade. “You shot him in the knee.”

“Clean too.” He face-shrugged, impressed. Sherlock held a gun on the criminals and confiscated the rest of the weapons, tossing one to John and kicking the extra across the floor. 

Just when John was about to ask for the answers he wanted, gunfire ricocheted from within the wall. 

“More? There are more of them?” cried Lestrade. He shimmied under a table in the corner.

Sherlock threw John to the ground and shielded him with his body. 

“Impossible!” he said. “There were only three!”

“Yeah,” said John. “And I have a little sister!”

The gunfire stopped and the boys rose to defensive positions. The remaining plaster exploded as a burly man shouldered through it, firing at will and bounding up the stairs with backpacks of gold bars shielding him from the front and the back. He’d built himself a makeshift bulletproof vest.  
John felt something rip through him but he didn’t register it. He’d never felt so alive. Things like this only happened in movies, and he was having the time of his life. Something was seriously wrong with him. 

Greg fired at the thief, but nothing made it through the bag. 

“Stay and hold the other three!” cried Sherlock, already halfway up the stairs. “Hurry, John! The game is on!”

John kept his pace step for step. He moved double time and closed in on the thief in the streets. He didn’t trust himself to shoot in the open, especially not running. Even with a sack of gold strapped to his back, the thief outran them, sliding into a waiting car and slamming on the gas. 

“Fuck!” Sherlock looked across the street and saw a sputtering car and an old lady loading groceries in the boot. He looped John by the collar and threw him in the passenger seat with his head at the floorboard and his feet sticking straight up.

“Sorry, for a case!” Sherlock peeled from the drive, the boot flapping open with every bump.

He drove like a man possessed, swerving cyclist and fishtailing narrow backways leaving baggies of carrots and tomatoes in his wake. It wasn’t long till they were back on the scent. 

John righted himself in the passenger seat. 

“Did we just steal a car?”

“Borrowed!”

The thief slammed on his brakes and wheeled around at a full one-eighty. He sped past Sherlock in the opposite direction.

“Shit!” Sherlock beat his fists against the steering wheel and pulled the same move, only he drove down the opposite road. 

“What are you doing? He went that way!” cried John, so hyped up on adrenaline he didn’t know what he was saying or that he was bleeding. 

“Trust me!”

Sherlock went one-forty in fifty-kilometer zones, screeching in a succession of ninety degree turns so death-defying John cheered in delight, all without a seatbelt. Sherlock did a double-take and screamed at him.

“You maniac, buckle up and hold on!”

“What?”

“Would you stop saying that? We’re going to crash!”

“What!”

John clicked it faster than he ever had before and took hold of the OS handle. 

“Three,” counted Sherlock.

John came to his senses. “Are we really doing this?”

“Two.”

“Sherlock…”

“ONE.”

“SHERLOCK!”

The car zoomed in at the perfect moment, T-boning the escaping vehicle and deploying the airbags. As the bags slowly deflated, John grasped at his aching shoulder, sore, he thought, from the seat belt. 

He beat down the bag in front of him with his good arm. He was panting, though he’d been sitting for several minutes. 

“You okay?”

Sherlock was similarly excited. “Yeah,” he answered. “You?”

John just shook his head.... Nodded? Christ, he didn’t know. He started laughing.

“Where’d you learn to drive like that?” said John, clutching at his runaway heart. 

Sherlock hesitated, then breathily, “... My housekeeper taught me.”

John absolutely lost it then, and Sherlock did too.

“Christ alive! You are the absolute, hands down, craziest bastard I’ve ever met! That was brilliant! That was amazing. YOU were AMAZING!”

“You’re shouting, John.”

“Am I?” John ran his palms down his face. “God, this is the best first day of school I’ve ever had! That was the most incredible--”

He looked at Sherlock. Was he… Was he blushing? Did he not know how indescribably fantastic he was? John just lived out a Hollywood fantasy thanks to him.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “We’d better check you out, I mean check on the perp. The crime, I mean the criminal,” he coughed and answered his own statement. “Yes, right.” It wasn’t very graceful since the whole front of the car was crunched to smithereens, but Sherlock managed to unlodge his feet and exit the car looking like goddamn James Bond with his gun held at the ready. John was in awe. He tried the same maneuver but ended up falling flat on his behind. It was a wonder he didn’t shoot himself. 

The perp was literally crawling from the car, but he didn't get very far, weighed down with ten stone in gold, and he’d chosen to forgo a gun to better drag himself across the road. The thief heard a click and looked up, and then down the barrel of a gun.

Sherlock smirked. “Not your lucky day, is it?”

The man groaned and let his bloodied head lob to the ground.

Sirens echoed down the pavement, growing louder and louder until at least seven police vehicles fishtailed to a stop, mobs of armed officers pouring out. Some of them looked like they were from Scotland Yard. John felt his hair rustling in the wind, and before he knew it, there was a helicopter overhead.

“Drop your weapons! Put your hands in the air.”

Suddenly John didn’t feel so good.

“Don’t puke,” Sherlock scolded over the commotion. “You’ll make us look bad.”

The boys complied and backed into one another. John let his head lean against Sherlock’s back. He felt lightheaded.

Don’t make us look bad. Keep it together, Watson. Stiff upper lip. 

But it wasn’t nervousness that got John. For once he didn’t feel anxious, just like he was drifting off to sleep.

“Oh, Christ,” Sherlock cursed as a swarm of officers slapped him and John in cuffs. 

The officers looked at one another, listening to some kind of device only they could hear. They glanced at each other and shrugged before parting like the Red Sea. 

This couldn’t be good. 

The chopper landed in the widest part of the road, blades still spinning. A man stepped out dressed in a slick, pinstriped suit and red tie. He carried an umbrella, using it as a cane, and wore a long coat similar to Sherlocks. He had slicked-back red hair.

“Red-Headed League?” asked John from his haze.

“No, worse,” said Sherlock. “More like the Cupcake Brigade.” The man made his way out to the boys, tutting.

“Sherlock Holmes,” said the man, with the tone of a mother scolding a young child. “Spying. Illegal possession of firearms. Drugs. None of these things surprise me.”

“Drugs?” thought John. 

“But Sherlock, really,” the man continued, “Carjacking?”

“It wasn’t jacked!” countered Sherlock. “Only borrowed.”

“Borrowed?” said the pinstripe suit, and he glanced slowly to the steaming vehicle. As if on cue, both front rims fell off, ringing round till they came to a stop. 

“Well,” Sherlock said, “it might could use a little buffing out.”

The man’s calm facade finally broke. “Sherlock, you’ve got to stop--”

John couldn’t listen anymore. It was like a sudden heat in his chest, a drop of blood in his brain, and a black shroud engulfing him. He toppled, but never felt the ground. Sherlock had looped his arms over him.

“John?” Sherlock sounded alarmed. 

Sherlock? Sherlock who? Why couldn’t he see him?

“Fuck!” Sherlock cursed, a form like cold fingers pressed to John's back and plastered to his front.

“Mycroft, where’s the ambulance? Didn’t any of your idiots send for a fucking ambulance? You lot are the most incompetent load of--!”

And then John was out, with nothing but a sense of peace.


	7. Can't Buy Me Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John develop a friendship, but what's it worth to John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the learning curve I took when I started writing this story. I think I've finally figured out the writing and the tech, though part Gremlin I am. For everyone who hung with me this far, thank you! Still going for the whole 40.   
> :)

Chapter Seven

“— an adrenaline junkie, to the point you ignored a gunshot wound. Either that or you’re a complete buffoon. It’s a toss-up. The data for both is equally damning.”

John’s eyes fluttered open. 

“I know I’ve only known you for less than an hour…”

Sherlock Holmes was on the chair beside John’s bed in the hospital room, pretty much planking over the arms on his back. He had his hands folded under his chin, and he was either deep in thought or praying. 

“...but I’m good at figuring people. You know that. This doesn’t bode well for your medical career.”

John groaned. He felt impaled. 

Sherlock perked. “Ah, you’re awake. Excellent.”

“I don’t  _ feel _ excellent,” said John. “What happened?”

“You were lucky, that’s what happened. It was a million to one shot, John. Most shooting victims have a one in five chance of death anyway, but you’re going to skate out of this with proper care and a round of antibiotics. Clay shot you with a .22 pistol. Relatively small entry and exit wound. The bullet entered through your pectoralis minor and exited out our back, missing your scapula and all major arteries. Sure, there’s some muscle damage, but another round of surgery or physical therapy ought to clean that up.”

Sherlock leaped to his feet and paced the room. “God, that was the most interesting case I’ve ever had! I’m so bored now that it's over.” He stalked to the window. “Look at it, Watson. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn’t it  _ hateful _ ?”

“And I’m the adrenaline junkie?” John said. He winced as he sat up. “ _ Me _ ? Coming from you?”

“Pot to kettle, I suppose.”

“Where’s Greg?”

“Hm? Who?” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder.

“Greg Lestrade, the rugby captain? Shot out a man’s kneecap?”

“ _ Lestrade, _ ” Sherlock snapped his fingers. “Always thought his name was Gavin.”

“Did he get into trouble?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” 

“Are  _ we _ in trouble?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Oh, please. Mycroft’ll have this cleaned up by the time we leave the building. He’s probably out threatening witnesses as we speak.”

Sherlock went back to pacing the room. He was muttering to himself in a frenzy, cataloging the details of the case. 

“It was the most bizarre case I’ve ever come across, John! Strangest premise I’ve ever seen, though I couldn’t have figured a better way to execute the crime myself.”

John wanted to ask a million questions, like who was Mycroft? Why wasn’t his family there? How long had he been asleep? But instead he found himself asking, “Who’s the Red-Headed League?”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. “Not who are they, John, but who aren’t they! I was approached by a pawnbroker, an acquaintance of mine, Jabez Wilson.”

“You can remember Jabez, but not Greg?” John asked. He got the feeling he was more than a little drugged. 

“Don’t interrupt, John, it’s rude.” Sherlock continued. “I like to frequent pawn shops. It’s an excellent source of information if you know where to look. Burglaries. Runaways. Any number of crimes can be solved by walking in a pawn shop. On one such visit, Jabez took me aside and asked me to look into a disappearance for him. I said, ‘What kind of disappearance?’ and he told me, ‘Two months ago my employee told me about an advertisement he saw online, a foundation run by an eccentric millionaire that would pay  £500 a week for only four hours work.” I asked why the employee didn’t apply himself, and he said, ‘They don’t want just anyone for the job, only men with bright red hair of a particular color like mine.’

“The Red-Headed League,” John supplied.

“Precisely. Of course, it sounds ridiculous. Then Jabez told me the kind of work they wanted him to do. He said, ‘They hired me on the spot. Wouldn’t even look at the other applicants. All they wanted me to do was type an 1890 version of the Encyclopedia Britannica into a Word document.’ He said he got as far as the B’s before, one day, he went to work to find the whole business vanished! At that, I really busted out laughing. He told me to sod off if that’s all the help I was going to be, but I wouldn’t have missed his case for the world!”

Sherlock was rip-roaring. He plopped down on the bed waving his hands dramatically. 

“I asked what the job was like, and he said that he was paid in cash every Friday. The only catch was that he couldn’t leave the office for any reason during those four hours. Well, with the employee running the shop, who would turn down an extra £500 a week for four hours work? So I asked him ‘How long has this employee been with you? What’s his name?’ and he answered ‘His name’s Vincent Spalding. Been with me for two months. Bright lad, learns quick. I couldn’t have hired him if he hadn’t been willing to work for so little. All he asked was to use my cellar for a dark room. Spends hours down there. I wouldn’t mind at all if his photos were any good. All he does is take pictures around town.’ So I had a look in the cellar and noticed he seemed fixated on the bank behind the shop, always the same three men hanging in the background.”

“ _ Why _ , John,” Sherlock threw his arm out where John could see a series of nicotine patches, “would someone pay Jabez £500 a week for nothing? It’s a large sum for a village unless they were investing in something infinitely more valuable. Nothing in the pawnshop could compare unless what they really wanted was to get Jabez out of the shop for a few measly hours a day. I borrowed some equipment from the geology department and confirmed my hunch, which you already know, of course.”

“They were tunneling into the bank,” said John. “Sherlock, that’s… That’s incredible. I never would have pieced that together, not from clues like that. I bet Scotland Yard’s finest couldn’t have figured it out!”

Sherlock blinked. John was afraid he’d short-circuited again, but then he snorted and doubled over. He wheezed so hard John worried he ought to call a nurse for him. “Scot- Scotland Yard’s fine--?” but he couldn’t get the words out. He was beside himself. “Of course they couldn’t have! They’re always out of their depth! If they’d just consult me I could help.” He started laughing again. “Who am I kidding? I could do their jobs for them without ever leaving Conan. I hacked into their servers long ago. Their cold cases are  _ pathetic. _ ”

Sherlock wiped away his tears and stilled, though the humor hadn’t left his eyes.

“Still, I feel responsible,” he said, sobering up. “If I’d noticed the fourth man, you wouldn’t be here.”

His face twisted in frustration. “ _ Another mistake _ ! What you must think of me. If you didn’t spend half our time together exhausting the English language of ways to sing my praises I’d worry you thought I was an idiot.”

John blushed. He was tired and loose-lipped from the pain medication. He didn’t trust himself to say much because he didn’t want to say anything to make Sherlock leave. 

John spoke softly. “But the things you  _ notice.  _ Surely you must get that sort of praise all the time.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, studying John once more like some new deduction might pop up. “Even you’re not that unobservant, John.”

They sat together quietly, John with his hands folded in his lap and Sherlock seated at the foot of the bed, his back pressed against John’s feet. No one seemed to like Sherlock, but John couldn’t see why. He was smart, yes. Rude, definitely, like a defense mechanism broken in the “ON” position. He knew secrets. Maybe John just didn't have any secrets he was ashamed to let the world know about, except perhaps his therapy. He’d have to find a new one now that he was in Conan.

“You let Anderson go to the police,” said John. 

Sherlock’s back slouched like he’d been holding his breath, glad to see the silence go. “He wasn’t totally inconvenient this time,” he said. “I knew once he stormed into the station screaming Sherlock Holmes that Mycroft would show up with a battalion.”

“A brigade.”

“What?” 

“Ha!” John pointed. “Now you’re the one doing it!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled. “Please, John. Don’t be childish.”

“Says the bigshot detective who called the head of Scotland Yard the Cupcake Brigade. Why? He’s not that fat.”

“ _ Yes he is _ ,” insisted Sherlock. “And he’s  _ not  _ the head of Scotland Yard. He’d have to drop fifty IQ points for that to happen.” Sherlock looked uncomfortable and crossed his legs. He cleared his throat. “We didn’t contact your mother and sister. You can’t tell them either, as I’m sure will be explained to you in no uncertain terms later. Think of this as a full-blown government cover-up. Someone will give you a file with a cover story for your arm. I’m afraid you won’t be able to use it for the next six weeks. Not even guitar. Which is a shame.”

Sherlock reached under the bed and pulled out a small amp. It didn’t have any stray wires sticking loose or anything. The mesh was even still on the front.

“No way!” John absently reached for it and flinched in pain. “You bought me an amp?” 

“Careful, and no,” said Sherlock. “Jabez, of course, knows of our involvement. When I told him about you, he sent the amp as a thank you. Just something he had lying around the shop.”

John was about to protest that he couldn’t accept one way or the other when Sherlock reached under the bed again and pulled out a case.

“Don’t worry. He gave me something too.”

It was a violin, very old, possibly handmade, but not near as nice as the Yamaha Sherlock played earlier.

“But you already have a great violin,” said John, who didn’t want Sherlock to get the worse end of the bargain.

Sherlock popped his collar, tugging at it. It seemed to be a nervous habit. “I may have lost my violin, smashed it actually, earlier in a… confrontation.”

John bristled. “Anderson? Did Anderson break your violin?”

“It’s okay, John.”

“No it isn’t!” John wouldn’t stand for it. He’d take on Anderson with one arm literally tied to his side. “Mike said he’d been bullying you. I don’t understand how or why you’re letting him. He doesn’t look like much and earlier you laid out that crook like a jiu-jitsu master. You could be on the wrestling team.”

Sherlock cringed. “I admire the sport, but I’m not much for contact.” 

“Don’t worry,” John said, nodding his head once as though a pact had been made. “If he tries to mess with you again, I’ll take care of him.”

Apparently this was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock stiffened and rose from the bed. “ _ Why _ ? I don’t  _ need you to _ .” He turned away and made for the door, but something stopped him. Mike was right. No one could plan around Holmes. He didn’t even seem to know what he was doing from one moment to the next.

John studied the boy in front of him, though he could only see the unruly mess of curls sticking out from the back of his head as he stood with his hand frozen on the door. John thought maybe Sherlock was right about him. Maybe he wasn’t paying enough attention, and so John quickly compiled a list mental list titled THINGS I CAN DEDUCE ABOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES

  1. He’s a genius
  2. Based on inferences, he has the people skills of a rabid skunk.
  3. Sherlock doesn’t have friends. 



John spoke before he lost his nerve. 

“I know you don’t need me too, but you aren’t alone anymore.”

Sherlock spun on his heels. 

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me!” 

Maybe if he wasn’t strung out on medication John would have noticed he’d struck a nerve, but seeing as the longer he was conscious, the more cracked out he felt, John pressed forward.

“No,” John said, sleepiness settling in his bones. “Friends protect people.”

Sherlock didn’t move. Not a muscle in his body seemed at ease. 

Finally, he said, “You just met me.”

John shrugged, but that wasn’t a good idea. The pain brought him around a bit. “Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Well,” said John as he settled deeper into his pillows, “you’ve got one.”

__________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock was John’s only visitor in the hospital. One of the downfalls of being part of a major government cover-up, it turned out, but he found he didn’t mind. Sherlock played him the violin, enthralled him with tales of his most interesting cases, and on two occasions he snuck in body parts from the hospital cadaver lab. At first it grossed him out, but after Sherlock explained what he was doing with them for experiments, he didn’t mind as much, though John drew the line at severed heads. He could wait till medical school.

John was going to have to start Conan a week late, but Sherlock assured him he wasn’t missing a damn thing. As far as John could tell, Sherlock didn’t even go to school. When John called him out on this, Sherlock insisted the mysterious Mycroft would take care of it and that it would be easier if they both went in together. 

“You can’t lie for shit, John,” he said. “Imagine if you waltzed in without me. Millions in MI6 conspiracy funds, wasted.”

“Just because you cheat —I’m sorry —  _ deduce _ the pants off of me in poker,” said John, “doesn’t mean I’m a bad liar.”

“I’ve got  £20, your left shoe, and a bedpan here that says you are.”

“ _ My _ left shoe?”

Sherlock face-shrugged. He did this a lot when he didn’t see the point in arguing with someone, which meant it was a gesture entirely reserved for John. “Why not? You’re going to lose anyway.” 

“The bedpan too?”

“The bedpan too.”

They fell into such a routine John got used to Sherlock being there when he woke up, but on Saturday, the last day before his discharge, Sherlock wasn’t there. Instead, a man in a tweed peacoat sat in Sherlock’s chair, and John recognized him as Mycroft, the mysterious person with whom Sherlock shared such a tumultuous and complex past. 

Mycroft studied John. Whatever he saw didn’t please him. 

“Your shoulder must be hurting you, Mr. Watson. Shall I ring the nurse for extra medication?”

John’s anxiety spiked. The curtain was drawn around his bed and he couldn’t hear anyone out in the hall. The entire floor was quiet. This Mycroft fellow could say “Good morning” and make it sound like a threat. The smug, calculating expression on his face made sure of that. 

John didn’t let his gaze waver. “No, thanks.”

Mycroft smirked. “Bravery is, by far, the nicest way to say stupidity, don’t you think?”

“What are you talking about?”

Mycroft stood — he still carried that umbrella though it was clear outside through a tiny sliver of window — and looked down at John on the bed. 

“What makes a man,” he said, “run unarmed into a gunfight without so much as an explanation from a boy he’s just met? An  _ unlikeable _ teenage boy at that. That says something about you, Mr. Watson.” Mycroft dropped the act. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“Are you with the government?” asked John.

“I  _ am  _ the government,” Mycroft answered, “and an interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock? Why?” If Sherlock didn’t like Mycroft, there was a reason. “I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

“You’ve met him,” Mycroft deadpanned. “How many  _ friends _ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“Oh, yeah?” John bristled, wondering if Sherlock would ever find out what happened to him if he decked this guy and was shipped to a Serbian prison. “And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly,” said Mycroft, scuffing the umbrella on the floor. “If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his archenemy.”

“But you’re helping him.”

Mycroft shrugged. “He does love to be dramatic.”

“Well,” John looked away, “thank God you’re above all that.”

Mycroft paused. He was not a man accustomed to being talked back to. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?”

“That’s none of your goddamn business.”

“Could be. If you do move into,” Mycroft pulled a notebook from the lining of his dress jacket, “221 Baker Hall, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money regularly to ease your way.”

John scoffed. “Why? What do you want?”

“Information. I worry about him.  _ Constantly,” _ his voice oozed on the word. 

John’s phone buzzed. 

_ I’m coming to spring you. It’s boring as shit without you. Get dressed. _

_ -SH _

He put down his mobile and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“No.”

“ _ No? _ I haven’t even mentioned a figure yet.”

“Don’t need to.”

John threw back the cover of his bed, slapped his feet on the cold floor, and, with his bum hanging out towards Mycroft, ripped back the curtain. 

“Leave.” John motioned to the open door. If his other arm wasn’t strapped to his side he’d have flipped Mycroft off. “You can’t buy everyone, you know, and you’re wrong about Sherlock.”

Then Mycroft did something odd. He smiled. 

“You know,” he said, walking towards the door with the umbrella over his shoulder, “You’re very loyal very quickly.”

“I’m not,” John shook his head. “I’m really not. I’m just not interested.”

“Mr. Watson, you surprise me. You don’t seem afraid.”

The chill air ghosted down John’s spine. He was becoming impatient.

John found that he didn’t feel anxious, though his body shook. He prayed Mycroft didn’t see it. “You’re not all that frightening.” 

“I’d contradict you, but I can tell by your left hand that you think it’s the truth.”

Shit. 

“What’d you say?” asked John. When Sherlock deduced him, he didn’t care, but when Mycroft did it, it pissed him off. Was how he felt about Mycroft the way the rest of the world felt about Sherlock? 

Mycroft went for his notebook again. “Your therapist says you have General Anxiety Disorder, that you’re easily upset about situations in which you have no control. She says you have trust issues, intrusive thoughts, are always planning for worse case scenarios. She’s not wrong, but not completely  _ right.” _

John stalked to Mycroft, his anger coupling with annoyance at just how high he towered over him. He spoke through his teeth. “Who the  _ hell are you?  _ How do you know all that? It’s fucking illegal.”

“Fire her,” Mycroft said, calm as ever. “You don’t hate stress, Mr. Watson. You crave it.”

“I would  _ never,”  _ John yelled,  _ “ _ I would  _ never crave feeling this way!” _

Mycroft wasn’t fazed. 

“You’re a junkie,” he said. “Same as my brother. You place yourself in high-risk situations. You crave adrenaline. You seek out high-anxiety sensation experiences, probably something you adapted when you  _ did _ have General Anxiety Disorder and you realized that the only way to make your panic attacks stop was to embrace fight or flight, the former being your preference.”

“If my arm wasn’t all banged up I’d show you how strong a preference it is.”

John stepped out of Mycroft’s way. “Go terrorize a cupcake,” he said, “and I’ll send Sherlock your love.”

Mycroft left the room muttering something about John choosing a side, but he was too keyed up to hear him. The bastard. One thing was for certain, though: If the options were Mycroft, the apparent government, or Sherlock Holmes, the teen genius, John was a Holmes man all the way. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock went to school that morning solely for reconnaissance.  Reconnaissance, however, is only effective if one observes and isn’t seen, and that proved impossible since Mycroft failed at his  _ one  _ job.

John said his mistakes were on account of  _ arrogance _ , downright  _ cockiness.  _ If a lesser man had said it, Sherlock would have deduced them into a nervous breakdown, but not John. Even John’s insults had a fond quality about them, and honestly, Sherlock would have dropped him if he’d kept up only a steady stream of praise. But John wasn’t like that. He really meant the nice things he said about Sherlock, just like he meant the bad things too.

“You dickhead,” he said on his second day in hospital. “You can’t just point out the head nurse has an addiction.”

“She tried to kick me out!” Sherlock had exclaimed. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Of course not! But that isn’t the point. Visiting hours are over and she’s just doing her job. You made her cry.”

“But she’s stealing from the hospital!”

“ _ You’re  _ stealing from the hospital! They didn’t  _ give _ you those body parts.”

“Morphine and detached eyeballs are not the same thing, John.”

“APOLOGIZE, SHERLOCK.”

And he had. Even when the head nurse told him to fuck himself. If it pleased John, he’d do it. 

School meant nothing to Sherlock. He’d invented his own job, consulting detective, and he already knew everything he needed to know. John, on the other hand, worried about his grades. He wanted to go to King’s College in London, and so Sherlock went back to school on Friday to get any work John might need for his classes and to clean up their room. He also wanted to see how the school was swallowing the story Mycroft fed them, some nonsense about a mugging and Sherlock being in shock, and that held among the faculty. The students, however, were another story. 

Mycroft overlooked the most insignificant of details: one Gavin Lestrade. 

Lestrade had, as the account went, taken one look at the unconscious robbers, one listen to the sirens wailing from the street above, and hoofed it up the stairs. He was smart enough not to go outside and instead made for the flat above the shop. He hid in the closet until the unmarked chopper flew away and shimmied up the rain gutter to the roof. He escaped back to his birthday celebration spinning the most fantastic story about Holmes and Watson foiling a bank robbery. No one believed him until he produced a gun. He didn’t want to leave it because it had his prints on it, and from there the story grew.  _ Holmes was a hero. Holmes was behind the whole thing. John Watson wasn’t mugged, he was shot! Killed in a fantastic car chase. A Russian operative, _ until the rumor was out of hand. 

Students who’d never so much as glanced at Sherlock suddenly wanted a piece of him. They cornered him in every class and didn’t let up until he went on the offense with the nastiest deductions imaginable. He liked it when John asked him about his cases, but they weren’t interested in facts. They didn’t ask intelligent questions, didn’t act impressed with even his most assholeish observations. No, Sherlock decided, John Watson was the only member of the human race worth even the slightest consideration. 

After he finished cleaning the room and unpacking John’s things on Saturday, Sherlock sent him a text. 

_ I’m coming to spring you. It’s boring as shit without you. Get dressed. _

_ -SH _

Sherlock smiled down at his phone and sent for an Uber driver. John didn’t respond, which was unusual for him, but he chalked it up to exhaustion. Sherlock never slept. He hoped it wouldn’t be an issue between the two of them later. 

When he arrived at the hospital, no one would let him on the fourth floor. The elevator wouldn’t acknowledge it existed. The staff refused to answer his questions. Armed guards stood at the entryways for the stairs. Only one man practiced so much overkill. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock greeted the moment he set foot in the lobby.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft returned. “Come to check on your pet, I see.

“John isn’t a  _ pet,”  _ he spat. He wouldn’t let Mycroft see him upset, but God, if Mycroft was seeing John, it meant only one thing. He choked back his fear. If he so much as thought about crying Mycroft would see.

He was the smart one. He taught Sherlock all he knew. 

“So I guess this was a waste of time, right?” Sherlock shook his head and glared at the floor. “Did you bribe him to spy, or did you pay him to stay away? Is he even still here?”

“Sherlock—”

“No, it’s okay.” Acid dripped from his voice. “I won’t go looking him up again. I mean, it’s not like he was my  _ friend. _ Where’d you send him? How much was he worth? £20,000? £50,000? Come on, Myc, I just want to know his price tag.”

“Sherlock, I’m trying to tell you—”

“None of them are different. I’m not a child anymore. I know caring is not an advan—”

_ “He didn’t take the money.” _

Sherlock’s head jerked up. He stared at Mycroft with his mouth agape.

“He didn’t,” Mycroft continued quietly. “Didn’t even wait for a sum. He told me to, and I quote, ‘Go terrorize a cupcake.’”

Sherlock snorted. He had to turn away. John, sweet John! Polite, amiable John told Mycroft Holmes, the powerhouse of Great Britain, to go home and stuff his face?

Before this was over, Sherlock swore he’d propose. 

“He also,” said Mycroft, “said he’d send you my love.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the tension was gone. He knew Mycroft well enough to know he wasn’t lying.

“As great as this has been,” Sherlock shouldered past his brother, “I’ve got an education to get back to, so we’re leaving. I’m sure you can arrange that on the way out.”

Mycroft grabbed his shoulder. Sherlock flinched like he’d been scalded, then turned with a fury. 

“What do you _want?_ You _failed.”_ Sherlock thought about mentioning Lestrade, but bit his tongue. There’s no telling what Mycroft might do when faced with a major security leak. “You failed to buy John Watson. Finally there’s something you can’t take from me.”

“I never took anything from you, Sherlock. Redbeard wasn’t my doing.”

“ _ Don’t,” _ Sherlock began, but Mycroft was already walking away.

His voice echoed down the hall. “I warned you. Do try not to fall apart again if it goes wrong. It so upsets Mummy.”

And before he could snap back, the hall was alive again, buzzing with nurses and happy chatter like nothing had ever been amiss. 


	8. Too Late to Apologize (False: It's Never Too Late To Apologize, Dumbass)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Sherlock have their first fight as roommates and Mike makes Sherlock feel called out about his feelings. 
> 
> Needless to say, the detective is SHOOK.

Chapter Eight

John barely spoke in the car. Sherlock assumed he either didn’t want or didn’t know how to broach the subject of Mycroft, and Sherlock didn’t want to push. He already knew John was loyal, but he wanted to see what he’d do. Was he having second thoughts? Did he wish he’d taken the money and ran? Spied? He kept looking over his good shoulder.

“I think I should warn you, we’re minor celebrities.”

“Come again?”

“The cover-up has failed. Mycroft missed one, you little friend, Lestrade.”

John straightened up in his seat. “How? That guy doesn’t seem the type to overlook anything.”

“Agreed.”  _ He overlooked what a good person you are.  _ “He’s slipping.”

Sherlock regaled John with the tale of Lestrade’s miraculous escape, as well as  _ his _ escapes from the claws of the student body. He barely got away with his life, he said. Someone  _ touched him, _ he said, without gloves. 

“Kitty from the school paper won’t leave me alone.” She’d cornered him in the boys bathroom and showed him her tits, like that would sway him in any way. Talk about solidifying your sexuality. “I had to get your homework in disguise, John. I had to wear a _ hat _ ,” he groused.

“Poor Sherlock,” John teased. “Have to muss up your pretty curls?”

“It isn’t  _ funny.  _ It was a deerstalker. An ear hat!”

John’s face scrunched. “Wait, did you…go through my things?”

Sherlock pulled his knees all the way up to his face, crossed his arms, and glared out the window. He had the tendency to curl in on himself when he sulked. 

“It was the only hat I could find.”

“My sister gave it to me as a joke.”

“Clearly!” Sherlock grumbled, “Your sister, who’s totally a girl and older than you.”

“Harry  _ is _ a girl, Sherlock.”

He was still coming to terms with what he referred to as “The Great Humiliation.” Two wrong deductions on a single person  _ about _ a single person. Watsons, the Achilles heel of an otherwise sensational consulting detective. 

John patted him on the knee. “You said yourself the writing on the shoes was feminine.”

This appeased him somewhat. When you associated with Sherlock, you learned to counter his logic with his own logic. His own was the only authority he truly admired. 

John felt Sherlock twitch under his hand. How had he forgotten? Sherlock hated being “pawed at”, so he pulled back. “Sorry,” he stuttered

Sherlock at last turned from the window. “What for?” He made the same puzzled expression he wore when working out cases.

John scratched the back of his head before fiddling mindlessly with the hem of his jumper. “Well, it’s just, you know, you said you don’t like being… touched.”

“Not you.” Sherlock went back to sitting like an adult. “You’re not people.”

People don’t charge in to help a stranger foil bank robberies. People don’t cheer manically on suicidal car chases. People don’t turn down cash cows, tell Mycroft Holmes to sod off, and people especially didn’t befriend Sherlock Holmes.

But John did. 

John cleared his throat. Sherlock reddened. Had he stared too long?

“Sherlock, before you came to pick me up, Mycroft was there. He offered me money to feed him information on you since he knows we’re living together.” John looked at Sherlock like he was afraid he’d leap from the moving car to get away from him. “But I turned him down! I would never.”

“You didn’t take the money?”

“Of course not!” 

“Pity.”  _ Liar. Like it wasn’t the highlight of your life. Like you didn’t have to restrain yourself from  _ hugging _ him when you waltzed through the goddamn door.  _ “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

John made what Sherlock fondly thought of as his lemon face and soured all the more because he couldn’t cross his arms to pout, which, judging from the number of times he tried to do it, was his habit.

Now who’s sulking?

Sherlock didn’t care for chit-chat. Sometimes he could go for days without talking, but oddly not with John, though the two of them could sit in amiable silence for hours. If John was quiet after a tiff, he was annoyed but okay. If he thought Sherlock was being a “complete dickhead,” then the patient in the hall five doors down would know about it. (The nurses had cheered.)

As a child, life was a guessing game. Initially, he learned deductions from Mycroft so he could “get on” with the human race, nevermind Mycroft hated human stupidity more vehemently than himself. His parents never understood him either. Where Mycroft was a prodigy, Sherlock was a problem, like asking about murderers meant he’d become one. Eurus probably had something to do with that. Instead, Sherlock used the science of deduction to put everyone off, to show that he was smarter than them so nothing could be wrong with him.

After all, what was the point of getting on with everyone if you had to be a dumbed-down version of yourself? 

Deductions never upset John. Sacks of thumbs and detached eyeballs didn’t either. Never before had he been with a person, a friend, who accepted him wholeheartedly, and he was determined not to fuck it up.

“John,” said Sherlock as they pulled up to the school, “I’m sorry about the deerstalker. I unpacked your things, moved my bed from the bottom to the top bunk. I thought it’d be better for you, seeing as I never sleep and you might fall from the ladder. We can switch, of course, once your shoulder heals, and we can adjust your posters and any of the decor the way you want it. I just thought it’d be more convenient if it was already done so you could focus on your schoolwork. Was that… Not good?”

Sherlock fixed on John, watching for clues of irritation. 

John gaped. Odd. He usually only did this when Sherlock said something “amazing” or too socially ignorant to comprehend. Let’s pray for the former. 

John exhaled a sharp breath like the beginnings of a laugh. “That’s…  _ good, _ Sherlock. That’s actually really considerate of you. Thank you.”

Sherlock beamed. He paid the driver with a swipe of his phone and went round to the boot for John’s things. 

“What are the chances you think of us getting in incognito?

“Statistically?” Sherlock dialed a number on his phone. Somewhere, deep in maintenance, a fuse blew, a pipe burst, and the fire alarms short-circuited. Every hall from Baker to Kipling fell into complete disarray, people colliding about in darkness and toilets exploding at random. “Pretty high.”

The boys snuck in the back way, Sherlock having long since lifted the key off of Breckenridge. He pickpocketed the headmaster when he was annoying. 

“What’s that sound?” John asked on the stairwell. “Is the building on fire?”

“No, it always does that.”

John stopped on the stairwell and gazed down at his friend. He wasn’t suspicious. Suspicious meant he wasn’t sure. John  _ knew.  _

“The fire alarms,” he drawled, “always go off?”

The stairwell fell into darkness and Sherlock whipped out his phone. 

“There,” said Sherlock. “They stopped!”

John sighed. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Arranging the room for me? Good. Triggering a campus-wide panic so we don’t have to interact with anyone?”

He paused for Sherlock to answer. He watched as the boy's face contorted into impossible stages of thought. 

“Not...good?”

John shook his head and slapped Sherlock on the back. “Bit.”

“Bit? Bit is a system of measurement for me?” 

“As long as no one’s crying, dead, or arrested?” John answered. “One hundred percent.”

_____________________________________________________________________________

The school year progressed normally for the inhabitants of room 221. As John predicted, their celebrity died down after a week. People saw that John was normal, likable even, and definitely not a Russian operative. He made friends with everyone and the only mystery was how he got along with Sherlock Holmes. 

Holmes went straight back to his old ways. He freely insulted those within earshot, argued with teachers and exposed their affairs, sometimes literally, and he played the violin at all hours of the day and night, prefects be damned. No one thought twice about his behavior until he was around John. In the midst of exposing an annoying chap’s darkest secret, John simply cleared his throat and Holmes let it go. If they were in the same class and the teacher “corrected” one of his chemistry equations (which didn’t  _ need _ correcting, John), instead of disparaging himself into detention, Holmes marched over to the boy, they communicated in a series of violent, nonverbal gestures (roughly translated into: “Let me do the thing, John,” and “Don’t do the thing, damn you, or I’ll not speak to you for a week, Sherlock) and he shut up until something exploded. 

“Told you,” Betty Preston heard him mumble at the new boy.

“Yes,” the new boy whispered back while someone hauled out the fire extinguisher, “but isn’t it better than getting in trouble?”

“Certainly more entertaining,” Sherlock grumbled.

Then the new boy said something about faulty fire alarms and Holmes  _ snorted,  _ broke down in  _ laughter.  _ Sherlock Holmes didn’t  _ laugh. _ He didn’t have a personality.

“Stop, stop laughing!” the new boy insisted, though he was cracking up himself. “Inappropriate,” he whispered, “laughing at a major chemical disaster.”

“You’re chuckling too!”

Altogether, the legend of the Red-Headed League faded into obscurity. Even Lestrade quit banging on about it.

That is, until the day John’s blog went live. 

It started innocently enough. John needed to do an English project and blogging was one of the choices. Harry and Mum would love an online account of his time at Conan, so he asked Sherlock permission to write about him, to which Sherlock replied, “Write any fool thing you like. No one reads blogs. They’re a complete waste of time.”

Of course, what Sherlock meant was that no one read  _ his  _ blog, a comprehensive study of 243 different types of tobacco ash and their uses in crime scene investigation. 

So John started at the beginning. He wrote about his father, his first day at Conan, and he wrote about his roommate. While he didn’t mention the Red-Headed League, he penned everything else about Sherlock, like how an old lady approached him in regards to a serial cat-killer plaguing the county and how Sherlock made the leap to go undercover volunteering at the Baskerville Animal Shelter until he had enough evidence to tie it to an illegal dogfighting ring and a cartel. People knew it was true because he and John made the news, and John’s blog went viral overnight.

“Cocaine, my dear Watson,” he was quoted in the story. “I’d recognize it anywhere. The receptionist at the shelter had trace amounts on the front desk, yet she showed no signs of being a junkie. While this is possible in a few individuals, I found it more likely the shelter was a front for a local distributor. Cocaine is used in dog fights, for when one rubs down a dog in cocaine and the opponent takes a hit off the other dog’s fur, its mouth becomes numb and it can’t bite down effectively. The cats, of course, were kidnapped and used for baiting. All very obvious.”

John wrote other things about Sherlock too, like how fucking impossible he was to live with. Big surprise there. 

“I have an anatomy test tomorrow,” John announced.

Sherlock paused from playing his violin to say, “Um… We have a body in the freezer?”

At some point, Sherlock replaced his student desk with a deep freeze. John threatened to move out if he found so much as one toe in his mini-fridge, so the deep freeze was a necessary evil.

“Thanks, but no,” said John. “I need to sleep. Normally I don’t mind, but could you please knock it off with the violin tonight?”

Sherlock went ballistic. “Knock it off? You don’t hear me telling you to ‘knock it off’ when you play chainsaw sounds on that abomination all night!”

“I play at ten in the morning, which is when normal people are awake!” John was recovered enough to play, but he hadn’t pushed himself, hadn’t shredded away at anything he thought his roommate would find offensive, but Sherlock made a fatal mistake. Not only did he play the violin well into the witching hours, but he’d also insulted the Martin, insulted  _ metal,  _ and a man can’t take that sitting down.

At ten o’clock, after his anatomy test, John returned to 221, hooked up his guitar, cranked the volume as high as it could go, and blasted Sherlock out of his mind palace and straight into the western wall playing  _ Ace of Spades _ by Motorhead.

“For God’s sake, John, I was on a case!”

John answered back with the most impressive death growl he’d ever produced. “WELL, YOU’RE NOT NOW!” before going off on  _ Red Handed Denial. _

His roommate’s face contorted in alarm. Was John possessed? 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sherlock screamed above the thunderclap.

John read his lips and kicked off his amp. He threw the guitar strap over his head and angrily locked the instrument in his armoire. 

“I failed my anatomy exam, that’s what’s wrong with me! I knew that test backwards and forwards and I  _ fell asleep during the sodding thing. _ The instructor kicked me out! Maybe you can get away with never going to divs or never going to university because you’re the genius Sherlock Holmes, but I  _ can’t _ . This is the only chance I’m ever going to get and I’m blowing it because you couldn’t do me a favor and lay off for one fucking night! You don’t show me the slightest consideration.”

“I show you plenty!” Sherlock snapped his feet together and pointed at the deep freeze. 

“This isn’t the same thing,” John pleaded. “When you ask me not to talk to you, do I?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“When you tell me not to touch your experiments, even when they’re in my area of the room and they stink to high heavens, do I?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it.

“That’s right. I  _ don’t,  _ because I respect you and I want you to be happy. I don’t understand everything that you need, but I try because you’re important to me. I care about you, Sherlock, and I’ve never complained about the violin before, but when I asked you to put it away you treated me like you do everyone else. You’re my best friend. Why couldn’t you have done this one thing for me?”

John threw up his hands in frustration. “You know what? Forget it. If you’re just going to stand there staring at me like an idiot because you can’t get the last word for once, I’m leaving!”

John slammed the door on his way out. He was so mad he didn’t notice the crowd.

“ _ Iesu Grist _ ,” Ryan drawled in low Welsh. “Do you figure Watson’s finally burnt out?”

“I don’t know, Greg answered, “but that was the loudest lover’s spat I’ve ever heard. Did you know Watson had a temper like that, Mike?” Greg turned to look at Mike, but he wasn’t there. Instead, he was standing at 221 knocking. 

“Lord! What does he think he’s doing?” said Ryan. Lestrade could only guess.

The door flew open. “John?” The anxious smile fell from Sherlock’s face. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?” Suddenly Sherlock’s face became more pallid than normal and his eyes widened. “Did John send you to collect his things?”

“What? No, of course not,” Mike said. “I came to talk to you myself, actually.”

Mike sauntered in the room without being invited. 

Sherlock caught sight of the crowd and scowled. “Break it up before I start throwing chemicals!” The crowd dispersed and he slammed the door. “You have five minutes,” he said to Mike. “Should be more than enough.”

Mike sat on John’s bed. “You see, I realize this is a bad time, but when I’m upset, I like to do something to take my mind off it.”

“I’m not upset!”

Mike looked at the smashed chemistry set on the floor. “Right, um, actually, I’m sort of here with a case.”

“A case?” Sherlock perked.

“Yes, it’s Betty Preston, actually.”

“No.”

“But you haven’t even heard what it is yet!”

“Don’t need to,” Sherlock frowned, crossing his arms and legs. “I’m a detective, not a love doctor.” He then shot up and tried to forcibly remove Mike by the shirt collar and the seat of his trousers. It was like a toddler trying to manhandle a mastodon. 

“Please, Sherlock,” Mike pleaded. “I just need you to help me deduce her. It’ll only take you a moment.”

“Mike,” said Sherlock plainly, frustration showing on his face, “I know the educational standards of Conan have declined over the years, but even you should know that  _ deduce  _ and  _ seduce _ are not the same words and have vastly different meanings.”

“I know! It isn’t like that, it’s just…” Mike sighed. “Betty is kind and honest and hardworking. When the sunlight catches her hair you can see tiny flecks of gold, and her laugh, God, I’d do anything to make her laugh. I tell her a joke every day but she never laughs.”

“Possibly because you’re not funny,” said Sherlock.

“I’m begging you!” Mike went on like he hadn’t heard him. “Isn’t there anyone in your life you’d do anything to impress? Someone you’d like to get on with even if it’s just as friends because them being happy because of you is all you want?”

“But you don’t want to be ‘just friends’ with Betty. Satan probably paves the road to hell with self-proclaimed nice guys.” He went on grumbling. “If there were a Satan.”

“It isn’t like that,” argued Mike. “I mean, it is, but not like  _ that. _ Even being friends with Betty would be enough for me. I know we have nothing in common, but… I just have to try one last time, then I promise I’ll let it go. Please, Sherlock, won’t you help me? I’d help you with John.”

Sherlock froze. 

“It isn’t exactly hard to tell.” Mike blushed and removed his newsboy cap.

_ Fifty-two,  _ Sherlock thought.  _ I could kill him in fifty-two different ways right now without getting caught.  _ He was in the middle of plotting fifty-three when Mike stood. 

“I’m not going to say anything, Holmes.” Mike rang his hat in his hands. “Even if you don’t help me, I don’t need to. It’s all in John’s blog, isn’t it?”

He went over every word in his memory. John never let on that he knew about Sherlock’s feelings. 

“He’s mad about you, even if he doesn’t know it. John was raised Catholic. You know how it can be.”

All he wanted was a peaceful day in his mind palace. How had it come to this? Fighting with his roommate and now standing in his bathrobe with Mike Stamford incorrectly deducing John Watson? “I hardly need you—” he started, but cut himself off. “John doesn’t—” he flailed again. 

Finally, “I could scarcely expect a man of your intellect to understand John’s mind, a man so far above the rest of humanity, though he be nothing more than a simple idiot himself, not a soul among you could comprehend him.”

“Which is the nicest thing you’ve ever said about anybody.”

“Which is the nicest thing I’ve ever—!” Sherlock paused. Time to go on the defensive.

“Sherlock?” said Mike.

“She thinks you smell,” and then he was off. Let’s see how he liked it. “When you speak to her, she takes twenty percent fewer breaths, meaning she’s consciously trying not to inhale. You talk to her every day in your class after rugby practice, but in your haste to see her, you forgo a shower. Disgusting, really. You also signed up for cello lessons after school. Drop that. She knows you’re only doing it to see her. She thinks it's creepy. It is. However, not all is lost for you.”

Sherlock reached into John’s shower caddy and took out his body wash. 

“Here,” Sherlock tossed the bottle to Mike. “She likes this fragrance. She increases her proximity to John by twelve percent whenever he wears it, which means it has to go. Play hard to get, dress less like a slob for Christ’s sake, and play videogames.”

“Videogames?” squeaked Mike. His head was in a tailspin.

“Yes. Obviously. Aren’t you keeping up? Her thumbs indicate she plays with a controller, muscle definition and joint stiffness not commonplace with cellists but common among gamers. I’d say go through her social media likes and find the game she’s playing. Pick one similar, but not the same, not to arouse suspicion, and get yourself invited to the girl’s common room during visiting hours. Play there and wait at least a week before discussing it with her.”

Sherlock finished. “And after this, you promise you’ll give up on Betty?”

“You think it’s not going to work?” Mike’s expression would have been funny if he didn’t feel that way himself. 

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know. It all depends on how you respect her moving forward and whether or not she can forgive the weirdo you were in the past.”

Mike gave a knowing smirk. “So, what you’re saying is, maybe at some point I should apologize?”

Sherlock groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know!” All of Mike’s problems went sailing out the window. He slid down the wall. “I’m such a bastard!”

“You are,” said Mike.

“I’m a sociopath!”

“Without a doubt.”

“And John will never speak to me again.”

Mike sat down beside Sherlock on the floor. “Yes, he will. You just need to use that big brain of yours to come up with a gesture. You know, something that says you’re sorry and you’ll fix what’s upsetting him. So,” Mike asked, “tell me what you did?”

Later that evening John came home to find the room in perfect condition. It’d even been aired out. The whole place smelled like freshly washed gingham hanging on the line. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room tugging at his Conan uniform collar nervously. He held something that looked like a small present in one hand and a bag of Chinese take-out in the other. 

“What’s all—?” 

“You can move out today if you like but hear me out first, please.” Sherlock slurred he spoke so fast. “John, I’m a ridiculous man. I’m unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and the most all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I…” he struggled. What had John said earlier? John had a way with words he never would. “I respect you and I want you to be happy. I don’t understand everything that you need, but I  _ will  _ try because you’re important to me. I care about you. You’re the bravest and kindest and wisest man I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.”

He lamely offered John the Chinese take-out. 

“So if I didn’t understand I was treating you poorly before, it’s because I never expected…” Sherlock couldn’t finish. He didn’t think he had it in him, but for John, he’d try. “... friend.”

_ Goddamnit.  _ “Friend?” Really? How many times had he practiced with Mike? 

_ Recover, recover, damn you. _ “What I mean is, I never expected to be anybody’s best friend, especially not—” 

_ I know you describe me as incredible, but the only reason I haven’t done the same for you is that there aren’t words strong enough in any of the seventeen languages I know. _

“—yours,” finished Sherlock. “So please tell me you still mean it.”

John came home expecting a fight, expecting chemical warfare that violated the Geneva Convention, and instead he found the world’s most difficult human being coming to him with his heart in his hands. Sherlock never  _ apologized _ to anyone. It didn’t  _ look  _ like a trap. John swallowed. 

“Sherlock,” he breathed. “It was just a stupid row. I didn’t really mean I was going to… I would  _ never  _ just move!” His head caught up with his heart. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘still mean it?’”

Sherlock glowed red. He didn’t answer.

John realized, “You mean that you’re my best friend?”

_ Is he going to laugh at me?  _ Sherlock thought.  _ “Scream again? Tell me he didn’t even mean it the first time?  _

“Of course you are,” John laughed. “What kind of observant genius are you? Why else do you think I’m always writing about you?”

John threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck and hugged him. Sherlock blinked and didn’t move. He just stood there with his jaw hanging lax. 

_ Hug back. Hug back, you moron, before it’s over.  _

But he wasn’t fast enough. John pulled back beaming. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock began instead, “write about this in your blog.”

“Oh, yeah?” John smiled mischievously. “Not even that I’m ‘brave, kind, and wise’ and you’re ignorant?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That isn’t news to anyone.” 

He held out the gift. “Here,” he said. “I can’t promise I won’t play anymore, but I can promise I won’t disturb you.”

John opened the gift. Inside he found two tiny earbuds and something that looked like a headset.

“Soundproof,” Sherlock said. “The latest technology. They use them on tarmacs, capable of blocking out 90 decibels. A Boeing could take off in our bedroom and you wouldn’t hear it.”

John looked like he was choking.

“John?”

He didn’t respond. Sherlock started panicking. 

Shit. 

“The apology,” Sherlock said, emotion creeping in his voice, “did I do it wrong?”

John placed the gift on the bed and hugged Sherlock again, this time around the waist.

“No,” he said, head buried in his friend's chest, “You didn’t do it wrong.”

The boys stood there for a long time, and Sherlock’s arm slowly drew around the shorter boy’s shoulders. They were okay. They were always going to be okay, and if they weren't, Sherlock swore he'd make it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know I'm not royally screwing this up, I'm INSECURE.


	9. It's Raining Goldfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter (short AF), but I didn't want my Mystrade homies to think I was baiting them for a second longer. Here ya go!

Greg Lestrade was raised by policemen. His mother served in West London before joining his father on the force in Nottingham, and his grandfather served there as well, though he mostly responded to soft calls like noise complaints in his old age. Greg’s background defined him, and so he knew well enough when he was being followed. 

Suspect: Caucasian male, 6’1, red hair, weight roughly 72 kilograms. 

Dress: Suit, high-end materials, carrying an umbrella. 

Age: 20-25 

Greg first noticed him during warm-ups. At first he thought he was faculty, but Greg, a year thirteen, had never had him before. None of his year twelve friends knew him either, or any of the younger boys down the line. He wasn’t a visiting relative.

“Maybe he’s a scout!” Eddy Chen exclaimed, upping the ante on his knee-highs. 

“A scout watching us? Come off it, mate!” Tyler dropped into push-ups as the whistle blew. “We’re the worst team in the history of the school.”

“Only because Greg’s dragging us down. Oi!” Ryan broke Greg’s focus. He was the only man still standing. “Just because you’re captain doesn’t mean you get to lord around while we sweat!”

Greg looked back up at the stands, but when he did, the man was gone. 

Later that day he felt it again, the hairs on the back of his neck hackling. His grandfather once told him never to ignore instinct. It is the unconscious mind telling the conscious mind something it doesn't know. He looked around the track after he came from the showers, yet the man was nowhere to be found. 

It was hours later in the campus Costa Coffee when Greg saw him again. He turned with his latte in hand and saw the man looking straight at him, so clear Greg could see the grey flecks in his blue eyes. Greg turned for the barista, but she was gone. When he made for the door, a guard in dark glasses stood with his hands clasped blocking the exit. 

“Mr. Lestrade.” The man sat in a worn armchair, hands stacked on the curve of his umbrella handle. “Sit down.” 

Greg searched for escape. This was about the bank robbery, wasn’t it?

“I had nothing to do with the Red-Headed League,” he tried to sound defiant.  _ This  _ man was redheaded. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. 

“I’m not here about that,” the man answered. “Though I will admit, you turned out to be quite the little …” He surveyed Greg, making him feel uncomfortable. Christ, the way this man looked at him he was like an older, scarier Sherlock Holmes. “... security breach.”

“What do you want?” Greg demanded. “Whatever it is, I won’t talk. My friends didn’t do anything wrong. I won’t snitch on them.”

“My!” the man exclaimed. “My little brother seems to be surrounding himself with a higher caliber of friends lately. I wonder, though, if you really mean it.” The man smirked at Greg like a cat toying with a mouse. Would he have him tortured?

“Little brother?” Greg thought out loud. “Wait, are you… are you Sherlock’s brother?”

Greg didn’t even know Sherlock had a family. He thought they just grew him in a lab somewhere.

A smile ghosted across the man’s lips. “He’s spoken of me? That doesn’t seem like him.”

Greg’s hand scalded against the to-go mug, but he didn’t want to switch hands, to fidget. He didn’t want any aspect of his body language to show fear. 

“He hasn’t,” answered Greg. “But the whole…” Greg gestured with his eyes and waved his free hand between him and Sherlock’s brother. “... thing with the deductions seems like it runs in the family.”

“Ah,” he said. “Sherlock showing off. He never could resist. He loves an audience, and he seems to have found it in his new roommate.”

The man retook his seat. “Please,” he gestured. “Sit.”

Greg thought about asserting dominance, about saying he’d rather stand, but that seemed unlikely anyway, so he sat if only to have an excuse to put down his coffee. He pulled back his hand and pressed it against the cool leather. 

“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” he began, “and I think you and I can help one another.”

______________________________________________________________________________


	10. Saturday Morning Peep Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg puts the cogs of his espionage in motion and John experiences his first panic at the hands of a notorious bedsheet, or lack thereof. 
> 
> (But is it really, John? Is it really 'a bit not good?' ;) )

It was Saturday. The midmorning sun shone through the open window and streamed through beaker after beaker of colored chemicals in a haze of green, red, orange, and blue until John slept bathed in a kaleidoscope of color. He stretched languidly, dreaming he was beneath the stained-glass mosaics of the country church his father was buried in. Normally, when he had this dream, he tossed and turned, but today it calmed him. No raindrops streaked down the Virgin’s face as though she too felt the loss of Hamish Watson like he had on that terrible day, but instead he felt warm and content like he had on the many sunny Easters he and Harry spent squirming in the pews waiting for the festivities to start and the sermon to be over. 

John woke to the sound of bubbling. To any other boy, this might mean coffee or tea on the kettle, but to John it merely meant Sherlock had pulled another all-nighter at the expense of the school bunsen burner. John snuggled deeper into this mattress and drifted between the shores of wakefulness and an ocean of forgotten memory. He dreamed he was floating on a long, inflatable lounge chair, but then a weight pressed on his body and he gasped as though submerged. 

_“John.”_ Sherlock laid spread-eagle with his back across John’s chest. _“Wake up. I’m bored.”_

John mumbled. “Whatza? Mmph. Saturday, Sherlock.”

John smacked his sleep-crusted lips and wrapped his arms around Sherlock like he was a giant teddy bear. He sniffed, then he jolted awake and nearly flung Sherlock to the floor. 

“Jesus, man, when was the last time you took a shower?” John waved his sheets to rid the smell.

“If that’d been the top bunk that would have killed me.” The dark-haired boy pouted and waved the wrinkled nightshirt in John’s direction, fanning the smell because he was petty like that. “When was the last time _you_ brushed your teeth?”

“Would you answer the damn question?”

It’d been two months since John met Sherlock, and in that time his mental list of THINGS I CAN DEDUCE ABOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES had doubled, tripled, quadrupled until he had to sort it into categories of importance, such as, but not limited to:

  1. He’s a genius
  2. ~~Based on inferences~~ , he has the people skills of a rabid skunk.
  3. ~~Sherlock doesn’t have friends~~. I’m his best friend
  4. He will self-destruct without a case like an atomic bomb. Beware if he stops responding to any outside stimuli for more than two days. 
  5. His real name is ~~William~~ Sherlock ~~Scott~~ Holmes, and from the lot he CHOSE SHERLOCK?? Psychiatry is still working on an answer. 
  6. Accept NO FOOD OR BEVERAGES of any sort at risk of a career as a human guinea pig. 
  7. When caring for your Sherlock, always assume it will not eat, drink, bathe, or, quite possibly, breathe unless prompted/threatened.



Number seven ranked most important at the moment, as Sherlock smelled of rancid food, body odor, and dental plaque. (There was a slight chance the ‘rancid food’ was more or less decaying flesh.) The starch, chemical scent of chloroform clung to his bathrobe, but it was no longer powerful enough to mask the other smells. 

“People say _I’m_ dramatic. Just look at you.” Sherlock plopped backward on the bed and placed his arms behind his head. John had to hold his nose at the stench of his pits. “I already wiped down with a cloth. Works just as well.”

“It’s been six days!”

“In medieval times,” Sherlock began, “they believed bathing every day to be unsanitary.”

“They also used their own urine as mouthwash. I read that Buzzfeed article too, and as your roommate, I say it does _not_ ‘work just as well.’”

“I don’t smell.” Sherlock turned up his nose and curled up on himself petulantly. 

John couldn’t stand it, so it was time to enact rule number eight: 

#8. Sherlock is a superb fighter. The only way to defeat him is to get the jump on him. 

John took a gulp of air and lunged. He took a jab to the jaw in the struggle, but before it was over he had Sherlock sacked in his comforter and was dragging him through the halls to the showers. He wrestled the weedy man from the sheets and ripped the shirt over his head and left it there.

John held him in a headlock. “ _Smell it, Sherlock._ The stench of defeat. _”_

“For God’s sake, John, lemme go!” Sherlock protested, his voice muffled in the shirt.

John didn’t let up. _“Why. Can’t. You. Take. Care of yourself?!”_

He ripped the shirt off and knocked Sherlock back into the single-room, community shower stall before pulling the door closed and holding it by the handle.

Sherlock cursed wildly on the other side of the door, some nonsense about “lost case-time” and “lives at stake” like he was working on something important rather than avoiding Molly’s calls about a peeping Tom in the girls locker room. 

“It’s for your own good, mate!” The door rattled, but John didn’t let up. 

A yawning Lestrade sauntered up to the sink with a bathrobe slung over his shoulder and coffee and a tube of toothpaste in his hand. “Trouble in paradise?” he asked.

“You know how Sherlock doesn’t eat?” said John, straining so hard the door handle bent.

“Yeah, something about only needing petrol like a car?”

John heard the shower turn on, but held his ground. Holmes was a slippery one. He wouldn’t put it past him to kick down the door and go streaking down the halls. “His body is transport for his brain, and apparently it doesn’t need washing because it’s just going to rain anyway.”

When John heard the pop of a shampoo cap opening, a stray someone had left behind, he finally let his guard down. He panted against the door. 

Greg watched him, switching from foot to foot and sloshing his coffee round like he was trying to aerate it. He looked antsy.

“If you need the loo,” John ventured, “the next one’s free.” He pointed down the hall to the next shower and toilet.

“Actually,” Greg said, never once returning John’s eye contact, “I wanted to invite you to game night. We’re playing _Risk_ and then _Rugby Challenge 3._ If you’re interested.”

Greg always invited John, and John always declined. He wouldn’t sign away on the unspoken terms and conditions that John, _and only John,_ was welcome to attend. 

“Thanks, but no thanks. I appreciate you inviting me and everything, but I have other engagements.” 

And by other engagements, he meant fielding cases through the blog all the while cooking up some hair-brained scheme to take Sherlock out to a restaurant. He would hardly eat the school food, even though there wasn’t anything wrong with it. Perhaps he would suggest the nearby village of Avebury. Sherlock didn’t care for history, but maybe the mystery of Stonehenge and the other neoliths would be enough to get him to go out. 

“Are you sure?” asked Greg. “Sherlock’s invited too, of course.”

John straightened up. “You mean it?”

“Well, yes,” said Greg. He wouldn’t quit bouncing his leg. Why wouldn’t he just use the loo? Sure, it was surprising to say the least, this change of heart, but it was nothing that couldn’t wait. “I already talked it over with the boys. Sherlock’s an alright bloke. We should have invited him to begin with, but it is a board game and some of the cards are supposed to be secret…”

“Say no more.” John got the gist. As long as Sherlock didn’t do the thing, they might be invited to board games from here on out!

“Who all is coming?” asked John. 

“The usual,” answered Greg. “Me, Stephen, Tyler, Ryan, Eddy, Brett, and Mike and Betty.”

Hold the phone. “Wait, wait, wait. Did you say… Mike _and_ Betty, as in she’s willingly there? With Mike? To her full knowledge?” John snorted in amusement. Mike was a wonderful guy, but he knew nothing about women. Frankly, John thought hell itself would freeze over before Mike and Betty became an item. 

For the first time since the conversation began Greg looked relaxed. Maybe that’s all it was, nerves about John’s reaction to the invitation. And really, could he blame him? John _had_ decked a shocking number of individuals who’d made the mistake of taking the piss out of Sherlock to his face. Sherlock didn’t like it, said he could take care of himself, but when John called out a boy in his Calculus class (on a day his roommate was too bored to attend) for calling Sherlock a faggot, challenged the boy to fisticuffs on the street outside _The Crown Diamond_ , and limped home sporting a black eye and a busted lip, John swore he saw Sherlock smile when he deduced the whole affair. Sherlock even willingly left his room to fetch John an ice pack and a cup of Neapolitan ice cream. When had he told him that was his favorite? John felt that foreign feeling again radiating hot in his chest and affirmed that the whole thing, defeat and all, had been worth it for such a friend.

Greg cocked an eyebrow. Something amused him. “You mean you don’t know?” he asked. “After your little domestic last week, Mike asked Sherlock to help him deduce Betty.”

John paused. “And he knows that deduce isn’t the same as—”

“Trust me,” cut Greg. “He knows. Sherlock worried the same thing.”

“So this whole ‘inviting Sherlock’ thing, that’s a thank you?”

“Sort of,” Greg suddenly looked uncomfortable again and interjected, “You know what’s funny? He told Mike his problem was that Betty thought he smelled.”

John dramatically clenched at his chest at though shot. “The hypocrisy is killing me! Take a whiff of this,” he said as he balled up the shirt and shot it at Greg like a basketball. It hit Greg in the face and he swayed on the spot. 

“Good night!” Greg exclaimed.

“I’m gonna burn it.”

“Someone ought to!” Greg laughed but tucked tail and near-ran when the door handle clicked. “Got to run,” Mike said. “See you at eight!” And not once during the whole altercation had Greg used the loo or brushed his teeth.

Sherlock stepped out dripping naked. 

“Holy—!” John stared a moment too long, eyes lingering on the dark patch of hair _not_ on Sherlock’s head. 

Sherlock deadpanned. “You didn’t bring me a towel,” and he stood there scowling, mane plastered to his face like a drowned cat. Still, despite bones jutting out at angles and scars dusting across his flushed skin, near-scalded from the shower, he looked _good._ Not healthy, but he could be, if he had padding across the wiry muscles shifting over bone. 

John wondered if this was how Sherlock felt in those rare moments when dreaded emotion short-circuited his brain and he spaced out. He begged himself to _do something_ and felt confused because he’d played sports and used community showers. He’d seen naked men before. Maybe it was because it was Sherlock. Sherlock hardly seemed the type to stand about casually nude. It took John by surprise, that’s all. God, was he still standing there?

Deciding that anything was better than gawking, John practically threw the sheets at Sherlock and turned away. He heard the rustling of fabric and watched Sherlock pass him, wrapped by the waist. He held the sheet at his bum, shoulder blades defined with the action. 

Sherlock was still too angry to talk to him, and so the two walked back to their rooms in silence and John had it all chalked up to surprise, absolutely, and weirdness because it was his best friend, of course, and that there was nothing to overthink or panic about. But then, in his pseudo-inebriated state, John stepped on the train of the sheet and got a front-row seat to his friend’s backside, and he knew, based off of his own reaction, one up until then he’d only had towards girls, that something was a bit not good.


	11. Go Take a Cold Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to heat up, BUTT (I mean, but) then they don't.

If Sherlock deduced the most humiliating moment in John’s life, he didn’t say anything, and John certainly wasn’t about to volunteer information. While Sherlock was bent over collecting his sheet, John made up some excuse about needing to call his family and took the stairs. He passed the spot where Sherlock admitted to MI6 level sabotage on his behalf and wondered why the hell he kept taking this route when the stairwell to the quad was closer on the other side. He didn’t notice till he made it to the lawn that he was still wearing pajamas. 

He passed autumn-colored trees loaded down with hammock upon hammock of students going for a world record. He sidestepped bicycles and half-clothed joggers. One even ran over his foot. He did the damn 4/6/8 breathing exercises, but nothing could take his attention from what he feared obvious to the world’s most observant human being:

He found Sherlock  _ attractive. _

When the hell had that happened? Just five minutes ago he was plotting game night with the boys, now he was staving off an inappropriate reaction to his best friend. How had it come to this? His mind, in answer to the question, helpfully supplied mental images of Sherlock’s  _ everything _ , straight down to droplets of water clinging to the hairs between his legs, not that those were the main focus in this ridiculous fever dream. 

To hell with  _ bit _ . This was Code-Red, Send-in-the-Marines, I’m-Desperate-Enough-to-Phone-Ella level NOT GOOD in all neon capitals. John felt something stir between his own legs and broke into a dead run. How could he possibly be turned on and having a panic attack at the same time? Rather, why the hell was he turned on at all? John wasn’t  _ gay.  _ He’d never been gay. He had a long list of all-female ex-lovers, thanks.

“You’re overthinking this,” he told himself. “It’s normal to think about other blokes. I’m sure everyone does it.” Except John didn’t think about other blokes. He only thought about one. 

He fixated on Sarah, his last girlfriend from back in Nottingham. He tried to think of her as he had before with chestnut hair and pretty brown eyes, but instead, the image broke and her irises turned blue-green with yellow streaks like sunlight on the ocean after a rainstorm. Only one person he knew had eyes like that.

John switched tactics. Things ended badly with Sarah, that was the problem. He needed to think of someone new, someone to pursue, so he thought instead of Mary, the blonde student he’d played darts with a time or two at the pub. She had a beautiful smile and a laugh that came easy. Why hadn’t he asked her out yet? She would say yes. She was short and sporty and bubbly and exactly John’s type, so why were all his memories of her eclipsed by Sherlock, of looking over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock wasn’t deducing himself into a fight, of checking to see if Sherlock was having a good time? He remembered saying something moronic and making Sherlock laugh. They laughed together all the time, but his relaxed smiles always felt earned, like a decadent reward. Mary’s smile was beautiful, genuine enough, but when Sherlock smiled his eyes practically closed and the corners crinkled like crow's feet. He showed all his teeth and his nostrils fanned out with every inhale, to say nothing of the way it accentuated his cheekbones, which stuck out too much these days for John’s liking. No smile that undignified could possibly be faked. It endeared him. It showed him how he should always be.

Happy. 

John slowed. Running wasn’t working. He couldn’t breathe properly and collapsed in the tall grass at the edge of the woods. John wanted to be a doctor. He should have known better and kept taking his medications, but he’d been doing so well, better at Conan than he ever had in Nottingham. He let his head fall back, resigned. He knew from experience he could be like this for five minutes or he could be like this for an hour. He only hoped he’d stop shaking and that it wouldn’t wreak havoc on his insides. 

So what if he did like Sherlock? Harry had Clara. 

_ If Harry gets caught, _ his traitorous mind whispered,  _ the worst Mum can do is try to keep her from Clara who lives an avenue away. If you get caught, the worst she can do is take you from Conan and you’ll never see Sherlock again.  _

The thought sickened him. He shook harder than ever. His future and his friend, gone because of him.

“Nothing can keep Sherlock from something he really wants,” countered John.

Again his mind rebelled.  _ Sherlock doesn’t want you. Look at you. You’re nothing more than a distraction, a scrap of ordinariness for him to impress and dazzle with his cleverness. He’ll find another. He’s not interested in anyone that way, and if he were, it definitely wouldn’t be you. _

John couldn’t argue with the logic of his own subconscious, even if his subconscious was being a bitch. He knew that this was one of those moments when Ella would tell him to make a list. Lists gave him the illusion of control. Normally she asked him to list positive things about himself or his day, but today he needed more than that. He reined in his thoughts enough to confront the dreaded enemy: Pro Con. 

His first list went as follows:

CONS OF ROMANCING YOUR ROOMMATE: A TRAGEDY IN FIVE PARTS

  1. If your roommate is likewise a dude, he might not like you back.
  2. If he does, what if you break up? You live together. 
  3. Mornings, and all that come with them, are about to get a whole lot of awkward. 
  4. You could destroy the greatest friendship you’ve ever had with the most remarkable person you’ll ever meet. 
  5. It’s Sherlock. He’s gonna find out.



That list was easy. Dismal usually was in the midst of these episodes. His second one, however, proved more challenging.

PROS … I FIND IT HARD TO BELIEVE I COME OUT OF THIS ALIVE, BUT OKAY.

  1. If Sherlock likes me back, I’ll never have to climb the cabinets to reach the high shelf for the rest of my life. 
  2. We live together. I don’t even know how that’d work at his point, but honestly? I’m super into it in a terrified sort of way. 
  3. Mornings could be kickass. 
  4. He’s my best friend. Everyone else is lackluster and days without him are _boring_. Did I think that in his voice?
  5. It’s Sherlock. He’s gonna find out.



John filed the lists away, repeating the points like a mantra. He felt exhausted. He always was after an attack, but he breathed easy now. He listened to the wind rippling the waves of grass, to the leaves rattling overhead as a few eager ones broke free from the branches and floated to the forest floor. The sunlight warmed his clothes and cheeks, and the last thing he was aware of were the cold, metal tags rising and falling with his chest. 

WATSON, HAMISH

O POS

CATHOLIC

What would his dad think of him? He wasn’t as harsh as Mum, he’d seen more of the world. Still, it was enough to give him pause, because he knew deep down his dad  _ wouldn’t  _ like it, that he'd be embarrassed to have John for a son.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally murmured to himself. “I’ll make him proud by being a Watson.”

Being a Watson meant being brave, and being brave meant telling Sherlock the truth.

______________________________________________________________________________

Mycroft Homles didn’t have to promise Greg Lestrade money. In the end, all he had to do was promise Greg a position in Scotland Yard after university. Wouldn’t his family be proud? Wouldn’t it all be worth it in the end? Greg could live his dream free of the stress of failure because Mycroft wouldn’t let him fail. As long as he sent regular reports on Sherlock and John, the Yard was a guaranteed success. That was the deal, Greg told himself for the hundredth time. Still, he felt sleazy. His parents talked about dirty cops, about bribes slid under tables, and he looked down at his phone and thought this was the same thing. 

HAS HE ACCEPTED?   
-MH

Greg’s thumb hovered over the icon, but what would he say? “Hello, Most-Powerful-Person-I’ve-Ever-Met. I’ve decided not to be a massive douche and spy on your little brother for you?” No way. That wouldn’t fly. What’s to say Mycroft wouldn’t go in the opposite direction and blacklist his applications to the Yard in the future? Besides, Sherlock needed spying on. Greg didn’t have any proof, but he’d heard rumors. People said Sherlock accepted drugs in exchange for cases. He wouldn’t buy them himself. He was too smart for that, and if the all-knowing Mycroft said his baby brother was a junkie, it had to be true.

The phone rang. 

Greg darted into his room and locked the door. 

“Hello?”

“Mr. Lestrade.” Mycroft spoke through the phone, but his face took over Greg’s television screen, which hadn’t been on. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” 

Greg spun around the room in search of hidden cameras. “With access to tech like this, how come you don’t just spy on Sherlock yourself?” he asked. Better to livestream his thoughts than constantly second guess his every word. 

“You are a soft target,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock is titanium.”

Holmeses. Strong in many fields, but compliments, not so much. “I invited John,” Greg continued, “but whether Sherlock comes with him is out of my control.”

“He’ll show. He’ll make it as unpleasant for everyone as possible, but he’ll show.”

“How can you be sure?”

Mycroft smirked. His eyes nearly shut when he did so, similar to Sherlock. “Because now that Sherlock’s invited, it's no longer a question of loyalty. John Watson will attend, and when he does, he’ll drag my brother kicking and screaming. He’s probably the only person in the world capable of forcing Sherlock to do anything.”

Greg didn’t doubt it. He almost told Mycroft about John bagging Sherlock and locking him in the showers that morning, but changed his mind. Mycroft promised he wouldn’t have to share anything that made him uncomfortable, and John Watson getting a hard-on when Sherlock Holmes walked out of the shower very much fit the description of uncomfortable. 

“He’s a smart one, your brother.”

“ _ I’m  _ the smart one,” Mycroft corrected. “Your point?”

“Won’t he catch on straight away? The second he sets foot in the room, he’ll take one look at the dust bunnies under my bed or the coffee rings on my desk and deduce I’m working for you.”

“He couldn’t tell from that.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. Goldfish indeed. 

“You know what I mean! I can’t be expected to fool that wanker!” He amended, “No offense.”

Mycroft’s assistant appeared beside him and handed Mycroft a file. He flipped through it gingerly. “He has referred to you directly as Gavin, Gabe, Grant, Graham, and most recently,” Mycroft squinted, “Jerry? Hm. It appears you have the gift all men envy: Sherlock Holmes pays very little attention to you.”

Greg frowned. He felt less guilty by the second. He went about angrily setting up for game night, ripping sodas and pink frosted donuts from the shopping bags. He emptied the crisps into bowls and went about chilling his hidden stash of beers in the mini-fridge. He was old enough, having started his education late after the move from France, but alcohol still wasn’t allowed on the grounds.

“Why couldn’t you get John to do it?” he asked, though he already had a hunch you could hammer pikes under John’s fingernails and he wouldn’t snitch on his best friend. “I know he’s loyal, but everyone has a pressure point.”

Greg set up the Risk table, waiting for a response. When he looked up, the television screen was frozen, locked in an unflattering image of Mycroft with his mouth slightly ajar like he was salivating. 

“Mycroft?” Greg tapped on the screen. 

The eldest Holmes jolted. Was he… staring at the donuts?

“You alright, mate?”

Mycroft nearly floundered, offended anyone would dare call him  _ mate. _

“I can’t press John Watson’s pressure point,” he droned. “Obviously.”

Greg cocked his head. Something sacred to Mycroft? Impossible. He scoffed. 

“Oh, yeah? Why not? What makes John so special?”

“Because,” he sighed, “his pressure point is Sherlock.”

______________________________________________________________________________

John swung open the door of 221 with the moxie of a man in love, but no sooner had he set foot in the room than a bucket fell on his head, and he was soaked to the marrow. 

“Hello, John,” Sherlock swiveled in his chair drumming his fingers together wickedly. “Enjoy your shower?” 

John slowly lifted the bucket and glared at his intended. It smelled like pine-sol and mildew. 

“Did you—” he tried to hold it together. After all, if  _ this _ was the man he fantasized about, maybe he needed a cold dip. “—nick this off the custodian?”

Sherlock blew a raspberry. “Where else would I get a bucket?” He swiveled back around. “I trust you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Me!”

“I don’t like being manhandled, John.”

Under normal conditions, John would have clapped back in a rage fit to tie, but Sherlock’s phrasing threw him.  _ Manhandled.  _ Did that mean… he didn’t like men? If Sherlock was straight, John would respect that. After all, John thought himself straight up until a few hours ago. Now he didn’t know what the hell he was. 

_ You’re overthinking it, you ignorant bastard. _ John shook his head. He went to his dresser and opened the drawer for his pants, but instead he found socks. 

Bunches of them. Categorically sorted. 

“Sherlock, what the hell is this?” asked John, riffling thought the index. He read aloud. “Cold nights? Pretending to be athletic? Flirt—” he hacked. “Flirting with Mary? I do not flirt with Mary!”

“But you know who she is.”

John wheezed. “And I suppose I ‘flirt’ with Greg because I know who he is!”

“Who?”

“ _ Gavin!”  _

“Ah, well, I suppose Silver Fox Lestrade lives up to his reputation.”

He nearly stroked out. “Silver Fox?”

Sherlock looked up from an equation, annoyed. “It’s what Molly calls him, and Anderson, disturbingly enough.” He went back to math. 

John slammed through the drawers before he finally found his clothes, pressed and lint-rolled, hanging in the armoire. A manipulation tactic, to be sure, either a preemptive apology for the bucket or a coup de main in response to the hostile takeover of his socks. John shook his head and smiled. Maybe he should’ve been angry, irritated, but all he could think of was how funny it’d be later when he told his sister about it or his friends.  _ I made Sherlock crawl out of his cesspool and take a shower, and in retaliation, he doused me in floor cleaner and then organized my laundry by use.  _ Every day was a mad lib, and he felt melancholy. 

What was he thinking? Walking under that bucket had been a godsend. He couldn’t seriously date Sherlock. He was his best friend! John felt ashamed for ever considering it. No matter what he wanted, he wouldn’t risk Sherlock for the world. 

“We’re going to Greg’s tonight,” he cleared his throat. “Don’t say you can’t make it. He’s literally seven doors down.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. 

“Did you hear me?”

John wondered what was the matter. Sherlock hadn’t actively ignored him in weeks, not without warning him he was going to his mind palace first.

Sherlock swiveled again, this time not amused. “You can’t change me, you know.”

John was taken aback. “What makes you think I want to?” And it was true. Out of the thousand-plus students on campus, John was probably the only one who would balk at the idea of altering Sherlock in any fashion. 

Sherlock started and stopped his accusation several times, the engine of his brain overheated, or perhaps flooded on whatever nonsense he’d deluded himself into now. 

“Look at this place!” He stood up, flinging papers everywhere. One gently floated till it settled on John’s soaked head. “It’s so…” he sputtered, trying to come up with a scathing enough word. Finally he settled on, “... _ domestic.” _

Shit. He’d noticed! He’d  _ seen! _ John wanted to crawl inside his sock drawer and die. The freezer was already occupied. 

“I don’t like going out, John, and I’m sixteen years old. I’m not a child. I can bloody well bathe myself! I don’t want to eat breakfast and go to class while some dimwit corrects my work incorrectly. I don’t want to be pleasant and get along with the goldfish of the world! I don’t want to make friends or be considerate or be normal. I’m a sociopath, and I can’t stand it, this  _ caring _ about what other people think, what’s it matter?” He scarcely inhaled. If John didn’t know better, he’d say Sherlock was having a panic attack. “I can’t stand caring what  _ you _ think!”

The bomb dropped. Sherlock stood there panting now with his fists balled at his side. John’s stomach dropped, mostly from the uncertainty of what Sherlock was so angry about. Was bagging him in the sheets and locking him in the shower really so bad? The more he thought it, the more it  _ sounded _ bad. Perhaps living with Sherlock had desensitized him to what was and what wasn’t socially acceptable.

John spoke as if not by his own volition, using bravery that came from nowhere. If Sherlock Holmes could apologize to him, then he could apologize in return. That’s what friendship was. “I shouldn’t have forced you,” he began. “You’re an adult and my friend, and I should have respected your boundaries. I got too comfortable with you and got carried away.” John swallowed, steadying his own emotions. “But you’re right. You shouldn’t care what I think. I’m nobody. I’m ordinary and you’re…” Would extraordinary be too bold? “Sherlock, I don’t make you eat or try to manage you in class because I want to change you. I do those things because I want you healthy and out of trouble. I  _ like _ you the way you are. I really do, but you're absolutely right. Micromanaging you isn’t my place. I shouldn’t be anybody’s, and I’m sorry.”

He waited for any indication of acceptance, but Sherlock said nothing of the apology. John bundled his clothes to his chest, nevermind he wouldn’t be able to wear them now they were wet too. He finally nodded his head and took up his shower caddy, opening the door to the hall. Absently he wondered where his body wash had got to when Sherlock’s body leaned over him and his long arm shot out, pushing the door closed.

“Why aren’t you angry?” demanded Sherlock. “You’re  _ supposed _ to be angry!”

John twisted, their chests mere inches from one another. He’d never looked up at Sherlock from this angle before, his dark hair settling above his cyan eyes and dusting across his sharp cheekbones. His lips drew in a tight line. They and the subtle flare of his nostrils reminded John of the seriousness in his expression. 

“Why’s it important?” John shook himself. “You just said you don’t care what I think.”

“I said I couldn’t stand caring, not that I didn’t.”

The taller boy searched John’s face. He was looking for something, a clue. 

“I was in the wrong, Sherlock. It’s okay for you to be angry, but not okay for me.”

He knew the more nuanced rules of society frustrated Sherlock and needed explaining. 

Sherlock answered quietly. “But I’m not angry.”

John snorted, a shy smile tugging at the edge of his lips. He didn’t notice his friend leaning down. “Could’ve fooled me.”

When he lifted his head, Sherlock's face hovered so close all he had to do was lean forward to close the distance, but he didn’t. Sherlock was too caught up in arguing with himself about sentiment and chemical defects. “Caring,” he finally said loud enough for John to hear, “is not an advantage.”

John tried not to choke on his own tongue. This definitely wasn’t a straight  _ or  _ platonic situation, and he had no idea what to do with himself. “Do you remember when I told you that friends protect people?”

Sherlock gave no indication either way.

“Well,” he pushed on, “that just has to make up the difference.”

Sherlock locked eyes with John, his eyes wide and his lips parted in something like fear or disbelief. He leaned in, and John leaned in, but before anything could come of it, a thunderous knocking came from the door and they both jumped out of their skins. 

“Sherlock Holmes!” came Molly’s voice and what sounded like the voices of a dozen other girls. “You come out here at once! We demand you speak with us!”

The boys looked at one another and bolted in opposite directions. 

“So, um, you,” John coughed, “kept avoiding Molly’s calls, I see?”

Sherlock glared at the door as if any moment laser vision would obliterate it and everyone on the other side. He  _ was _ one lab accident away from a supervillain, John thought. 

“I don’t  _ want _ to help Molly catch a boring old pervert,” he pouted, collapsing with his arms crossed on the swivel chair. 

“Then don’t,” John shrugged. He made his way for the door.

“Don’t? But you always argue— DON’T OPEN THE DOOR! ARE YOU MAD?”

But John did open the door, and used the distraction of twenty girls spilling into his bedroom to slip into a cold shower where, hopefully, he could forget about the one man who was always there, a breath away from where he slept. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg: Gee, I hope no one finds my semi-legal beer stash.
> 
> Sherlock, with a dead body in a big-ass deep freeze and cocaine halfheartedly hidden in his room because he doesn't give a shit like: 
> 
> This is possibly the most in-character nonsense I've ever nonsensed.


	12. Molly and the Amazons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LIST OF THINGS I CAN DEDUCE ABOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES
> 
> #9 When in doubt, go for his ego.
> 
> (*Sherlock in the background calling: I could climb my ego and jump to your IQ!)  
> (John: NO.)
> 
> When Molly and field hockey girls insist they have a peeping Tom, it falls to John to get Sherlock to take the supposedly dull case.

Sherlock was a torn man. On the one hand, he wasn’t going to Lestrade’s, and that was final. On the other hand, he had no intention of being Molly and the field hockey team’s bloodhound. _Mary_ was on the field hockey team. The girls insisted they were being watched in the locker room, but had no proof. Only a pervasive feeling. Female hysteria, that’s what it was, but he kept his mouth shut. If Mummy ever found out he thought something borderline sexist she’d drive all the way from Musgrave Hall just to ring him by the ear. 

Ever the gentleman, he halfway listened, assailed at all sides by the relentless caterwauling. If the girls had even the tiniest scrap of evidence maybe he would have been able to focus, but they gave him nothing to deduce, and as it were the door was open to where he could see John traipsing about in a towel, having forgotten his shaving cream. He caught Mary staring too. He almost couldn't blame her.

What did they want him to do? Dress in drag and camp out in the showers? He supposed it wouldn’t be that hard of a disguise to throw together, but then again, he had a few assets one couldn’t easily hide. 

He eyed Molly Hooper, the obvious ringleader. Molly was mousy in both temperament and hair, yet when angry, she became like a scalded tea kettle all the way to the ends of her follicles, a human mood ring, or a kind of she-Hulk. 

“Are you listening?”

Sherlock realized he was sitting with his knees to his chest in the swivel chair. John said he did this whenever he was a) pouting or b) offline, and Molly must’ve noticed too because she dumped him out of his chair and rolled it out into the hall. 

Molly took Sherlock by the ear like she’d been schooled in the art of doing so by Mummy Holmes herself and drew Sherlock to his feet. “We don’t feel safe! What if something happens to one of us? Won’t you feel terrible then?”

“Hardly.”

“Where’s John?” one of them cried. “He’ll make him see reason, he always does!”

Why did everyone assume John was his keeper? It was insulting. Just because he changed a few things to make John happy.

A baying went up for John Watson until a small regiment of girls left the room to set up camp outside his shower. There could be no chance of escape. Where the devil was the prefect in charge of the floor? Where were the teachers? How had this invasion been allowed to take place? Sherlock supposed the answer was that one or two of the mentioned individuals were shagging the same girl on the field hockey team (neither of them knew it) and that she’d manipulated her way straight into Baker Hall. 

“Leave him out of this!” Sherlock barked. “He won’t help. John’s bothered by nudity!”

Or maybe it was just Sherlock’s nudity. He recalled with hurt how John studied his emaciated body in horror before turning away from him. John practically threw his own bedsheets at Sherlock rather than look at him for another second. Sherlock knew he was horse-faced and lanky and pasty and covered in scars, so maybe he could have tolerated John turning away, but when he ran, lying about calling his family despite the fact his phone lay forgotten on his nightstand, it  _ hurt.  _ Why did he react so badly? John had seen him shirtless before. Then he recalled listening from the shower how Gavin referred to their fight as a “little domestic” and he froze. Was it a joke about his sexuality? Had Gavin unwittingly outed him to his only friend in the world? Did John think he was just a faggot now, coming on to him? Why, again, did he care so much about what John Watson thought anyway? 

Sherlock scoffed at himself. Apparently, he cared enough to sort his sock drawer in a fashion that said he supported John’s heterosexuality. 

“Got him!” Olivia Spencer hauled John in by the shoulders. The large girl looked like she had two feet on him, bless him. 

John managed his jeans, but he only got one arm in his hoodie during the ambush and stood half-naked in the center of the room. His whole body was beet red and his posture self-conscious, though Sherlock couldn’t figure what for. John was neither lean nor beefy but was the perfect balance between fat and muscle with a deep V drawing up from his hip bones and down into his jeans from his rough, yet ill-defined abdomen. His arms were in a tense flex that accentuated the ropes of his neck muscles. Finally, the boy came to himself and shrugged on the rest of the hoodie. 

Shame.

And Sherlock wasn’t the only one who thought so. A whine of protest came from a faction of the field hockey team, earning a shy smile out of John who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor, especially when Mary looked at him, giggling behind her dainty hand.

Sickening.

Restraint snapped. “Stop that! Stop it all of you!” said Sherlock. Shit. John was staring right at him. He had to salvage this, the threat of looking like a sexist asshole be damned. It was better than looking like a jealous asshole. He turned to the window with his fists at his back. “I’ll not have any more of this female nonsense in my room.” 

Molly whacked him in the back of the head.

“You’ve got to talk to him, John!”

“Make him see sense, he’ll listen to you!”

“You’ve got a sister, don’t you John? How would you feel if someone was looking in on her?”

A roar went up, everyone insisting John insist that Sherlock do their bidding, until finally the small man cried above the clatter, “ENOUGH!”

It shut everyone up. Sweet, gentle John (to those who didn't know him like Sherlock or those who insulted Sherlock) never shouted.

“I am  _ not _ Sherlock Holmes’ keeper. Managing him isn’t my place and it isn’t yours either,” John repeated himself from earlier, and he meant it too. 

However, Molly caught something sparkling in his eye and she knew:

John Watson was up to something. 

“Sherlock isn’t the  _ only  _ detective out there. He’s only sixteen for Christ’s sake! Surely there’s someone more qualified you all can go to, somewhere to report? I’m sure the police are more than capable.”

Her eyes darted between Sherlock and John, the shorter boy looking for all the world like an innocent lamb, and Sherlock like a scandalized codfish. Molly had never seen him look so offended. 

“The police! Capable! John, are you hearing yourself?”

“What?” John asked like he hadn’t a clue. “Peeping Toms aren’t your division.”

“Well, of course not!” volleyed Sherlock.

“So it only makes sense the girls go to a professional. I’m sure the Yard could send someone who could solve it by the end of the week.” 

“I could solve it by the end of the day! It’s just a boring old pervert case. If there  _ was _ one I could easily smoke him out!”

“Do you think you could tell for sure if there wasn’t one to set the girls at ease?”

“Obviously! Qualified? I’m the most qualified person alive!” Sherlock flew into a tizz. “I could set one foot in that locker room and solve it! If these dimwits had even the slightest scrap of evidence I could solve it without ever leaving the Hall! More qualified?”

He was obviously still salty over  _ that  _ below the belt comment. 

“Do try to curb your natural impulse to be an imbecile, John, or you’ll find yourself competing with Anderson in the moron Olympics!” 

Every girl in the room smirked. 

“I don’t know if I believe you,” said Molly, slowly. “Maybe John’s right. What are we all doing going to a teenage boy to discover another teenage boy? We should call the police right now.”

Mary drew out her phone. 

The insult! It was enough to make him choke back bile. “You think the police are going to investigate with what you’ve got to go on? Don’t be stupid. No one would take your case.”

“So you’re saying it’s unsolvable?” continued the salacious girl who’d shagged everyone’s way into the hall, Irene Adler. She swayed up to Sherlock cocking her eyebrow seductively. “Will John post it on his blog? I’d hate for our little peeping Tom to think he was more clever than you.” She unlocked her mobile and showed it to Sherlock. 

He gasped, betrayed. “You post the unsolved ones?”

John averted his gaze and tried to look appropriately chastised. “The unsolved ones show you’re human, that even you can’t solve everything. You don’t want people busting in like this all the time thinking you’re a cure-all.”

“Human!” Sherlock flung open the armoire and threw on his coat, all the while muttering about homo sapien backstabbers. He marched for the door before turning and demanding, “Scarf, dammit! Get me my scarf!” 

Five girls ran headlong into one another in the bustle for the scarf, following hot on Sherlock's heels.

“John!” he called, and the left and the right defenders gathered him under the knees and carried him out of the room like he too was nothing more than another forgotten accessory. 

“Hey! Sherlock! Tell them to put me down! I’ve got to get ready for Greg’s!”

“One of the rugby lad’s boys nights?” asked Molly, back to her regular mousy self and keeping in step alongside the defenders now that the debate was over. “That won’t start for another two hours. They last all night. Risk campaigns take ages. You’ve plenty of time!” 

John resigned himself. It served him right, manipulating Sherlock so soon after a row that he didn’t need managing. 

“Quick thinking back there, catching my drift,” said John, only a tad humiliated as the parade passed through the common room. The other boys either videoed, laughed, looked jealous, or all of the above. “I’d appreciate it if the team didn’t say anything. It'd hurt his feelings.”

“Of course,” said Molly. “We might need the same trick again.” Her merry face darkened somewhat. “John, we wouldn’t come unless it was urgent. I know Sherlock’s right, we don’t have anything to go on, but it feels wrong, somehow, and the other day I swear I saw someone following me with a camera, and Mary said she thought the same thing once and brushed it off. It isn’t a coincidence, is it?”

John felt less guilty then. Harry always said a woman couldn’t afford to ignore her instincts. The Watson kids lived in one of the poorer neighborhoods of Nottingham, and that was saying something. Harry’s instincts had saved her life on more than one occasion when an imagined stalker turned out to be quite real. “Have you told Sherlock?”

Molly shook her head. “It didn’t seem important. We thought he’d laugh.”

With her and Sherlock's history, John understood why she might be hesitant.

“Sherlock doesn’t believe in coincidences, Molly,” John said. “He says the universe is rarely so lazy. He solves things from details anyone else would balk at. You need to tell him straight away.”

Molly was quiet. Even the defenders looked at one another with unease. “Do you really think he can solve it?” asked Amanda, the most muscular of the two Amazons.

John nodded at both girls, neither of whom showed any sign of placing him on his own two feet. 

“I believe in Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “and now it’s Tom’s turn to be afraid.” 

Pacified, the troop carried on to the Fleming Recreational Center. Sherlock never slowed once, too hot under the collar, and John started a conversation with Mary to get her story on the man with the camera. Sherlock must've been eager for clues because he muscled in so hard the Amazons dropped John with a thud. 

"Get up, John," he said with the usual flourish. He'd seen something. "The game is on!"


	13. Some Men Have Mums, Other People Have Antheas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson saves someone's life. Now Sherlock has to solve her case.

If someone told Molly Hooper at the start of the school year that Sherlock would be head over heels in love by the end of October, she would have simultaneously called that person a liar and started planning her wedding in a scrapbook titled Hooper-Holmes. Sherlock and Molly took the same advanced chemistry courses, and who besides her could ever abide his rudeness? But she now saw her mistake. Sherlock didn’t need someone who abided by him; he needed someone to stand up to him. 

“WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES!”

“William?” The defenders, Amanda and Abby, looked at one another and shrugged. John was beside himself with worry, his panicked voice echoing across the polished maple floors and back again from the vaulted ceilings. 

“YOU GET YOUR _ARSE_ DOWN HERE AT _ONCE!_ WHAT IF YOU _FALL?_ WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO _THEN?_ ”

Sherlock, who’d been in the training center for approximately 3.4 seconds, had already seen something to confirm the girls’ suspicions and was inspired to scale the wall. He hung fifty meters above the gymnasium, clinging haphazardly to a rafter with one arm, and was looking out through the long, shatterproof window into the night. John, the poor soul, circled beneath him with his arms partially outstretched, but mostly resigned to the fact that all he could do was cushion Sherlock’s fall, nevermind it’d kill him. People could say what they liked about Sherlock changing for John, but Molly saw that it was John who’d gotten the more radical end of the metamorphosis. 

Sherlock shimmied down the wall, dusted off the tail of his long coat, and declared, “Flash photography.”

“What?” asked Mary. She was new, much like John, but unaccustomed to the Holmes boy. 

Sherlock ignored her, but not, Molly noted, like he ignored other people. He glared at Mary for a split second, his wide nostrils and twisted lips forming the definition of a sneer, and veered in the opposite direction. He didn’t even deign Anderson such looks. 

“You,” he pointed at a Shreeya, the team's manager. “Anything of consequence going on with the field hockey team today?” 

She blinked. “We’ve got two more games till the end of the season?” she said. “Our last is the first Saturday in November, but nobody’s in a tizz about that. We’ve hardly any thirteens to be excited about it either.”

“So no reason for anyone to be lurking about the rec center in the dead of night?”

Worried gasps rippled through the room, filling the gymnasium with reverberated cries of outrage. Molly ordered squadrons to search the outside, but to hang together in case they ran into the Tom. 

“He isn't’ a Tom,” Sherlock corrected, “but a stalker, and not a very clever one from the looks of it. It’d do you no good to go after him either. I tried to track him in the dark. Judging by the trail of rustled foliage, I’d say he has to be a boy who lives in Kipling Hall.”

“Then let's go get him!” cried Abby. “If we know where he is, we can—”

“Do what?” cut Sherlock. “Shake down the whole hall on nothing but a feeling you’re all being watched and a hunch Kipling is where he went? Miss Adler isn’t shagging the staff there. Yet. Molly,” he placed his hand on her arm and pulled her aside. “What were you telling John?”

Molly shook her head. Sherlock’s eyes were hypnotic, but there was no sense crushing on a boy so clearly fixated on another boy. “I… I was just saying how after the match two weeks ago, I thought I saw a boy in a hoodie following me. He had on a ball cap with the hood pulled over, but I couldn’t see his face. He had a camera in front of it like he was taking pictures of me.”

“What kind of camera?”

Molly thought. “It… I don’t know for sure. I wasn’t looking at the time. It had a lens attached to it, not long enough to be professional, but longer than what your mum would use.”

“So like something that would come with a starter pack?”

“I suppose,” said Molly.

Sherlock thought for a moment. John looked on while gnawing at his fingernails, occasionally breaking to dart his eyes between Sherlock and the rafter like he was still trying to figure out how the boy had climbed it in the first place. 

Finally, Sherlock asked, “And where were you going when he followed you?”

“Physical therapy,” answered Molly. “I’ve a back injury. I haven’t been able to play all season, but I might be able to these last couple of games.” 

“Me too!” piped Mary.

Sherlock turned to her, though it looked like it physically pained him. He stared daggers, somewhere between forming deductions and a plan for murder. 

She backtracked. Had she said something wrong? “What I mean is, when I was followed, I was heading to physical therapy too. I have an injury as well, but it’s my knee.”

Sherlock turned and started for the locker room. 

“Hey!” Mary called back. “Don’t you want to know the brand of the camera?”

He stopped. “ You _ , _ ” he drawled, “noticed the  _ brand _ ?” He made it sound like the most absurd statement he’d ever heard in his life.

“Of course,” she said, her face quirked into a look of bewilderment. “I don’t need glasses. It was a Canon Rebel T5, or around the same model. I have one just like it and I read the brand above the lens to be sure. He was white, slender build, and shorter than you but taller than John.”

Molly swore she saw Sherlock’s eye twitch. “Thank you for that description of over eighty-six percent of Conan’s male population, Mary. You should apply for work with the Yard when this is over.” 

Mary didn’t know much about Sherlock, but she knew when she’d been insulted.

He continued through the bathroom door with John and the remainder of the field hockey team in tow. They’d scarcely entered when Molly heard him scream, “Out! Get out! You’ll compromise the integrity of the crime scene!”

Everyone scuttled.

“John, you idiot.” Sherlock stuck his arm out the bathroom door. “Not  _ you!”  _ and he jerked the tiny man back inside, harping loudly about how even qualified detectives need assistants. 

Mary scoffed. She leaned towards Molly and whispered without taking her eyes off the door, “I can’t believe John is friends with that guy!”

Molly whipped her head so fast she felt her brain knock into the side of her cranium. 

“I mean, he’s not batting on a full wicket, is he?” continued Mary. “And they’re always bickering! Living with him must be a nightmare."

It was in that moment that Molly understood how John picked so many fights, why he’d taken a beating all those weeks ago after challenging the boxing team’s Luca McCall for calling Sherlock a foul name: 

When you love someone, only you’re allowed to call them on their shit. 

“Bickering? That’s what you call it?” Molly almost laughed.

“Well, yes,” said Mary, “if I’m being ladylike. What do you call it?”

Molly looked the girl dead in the eye. 

“Flirting,” Molly replied, ignoring her own hurt, “and unresolved sexual tension.” 

Molly whipped out her phone before Mary could protest, scrolling through John’s blog. “Let’s go over the highlights, shall we? Case number three: The Hound of the Baskervilles. ‘It was the dog days of September, all the hotter as I found myself in the closet pressed against Sherlock Holmes’ chest. We were hiding in the cramped storeroom of the Baskerville Animal Shelter, and my brilliant friend, as always, had failed to inform me we were busting up a cartel…’”

______________________________________________________________________________

John thought he would feel out of place in a girls locker room, but he felt more like a visitor to a day spa than a stranger in a strange land. At his old school, the locker room was simply that: a room with lockers. 

This wasn’t the case at Conan. The Lady Badger's locker room was carpeted in dark grey. It absorbed sounds so that not even his footsteps could be heard. Black lockers curved along the wall in the shape of a U, breaking the area into small sections, and the pattern continued all the way to the showers which disappeared down an L-shaped hall. Giant black and white murals of the school’s various sports teams divided the lockers by sport. The boys walked along this route, passing lacrosse, football, wrestling, until at last they came to field hockey. 

It was the cleanest locker room John had ever seen. Where were the stinking piles of discarded lucky drawers? Where were the half-used tubes of deodorant scattered on the floor? The carpet looked freshly vacuumed, and the worst thing John could say about it was that there were fingerprint smudges across the dark-colored lockers. 

John didn’t see how Sherlock could possibly deduce a pervert out of this. “Well, Smart Guy, still think you can solve it in a day?”

“Hush, John.” 

Sherlock fished a rectangular magnifying glass out of his pocket. 

“You just carry one of those with you?” 

“Fortune favors the prepared mind and all that,” he dismissed. Sherlock snapped the magnifying glass shut and lunged into the nearest bin. He flailed with his legs hanging over the side as he flung rubbish left and right. He hit John in the face with a discarded sports bra. And a broken hairbrush. And an empty can of hairspray. 

“What are you looking for?” asked John, exasperated as he dodged handful after handful of used paper towels. 

Sherlock popped up from the bin. He straightened to his full height and smiled down at his friend. “It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.” 

John felt his cheeks heat, but before he could decide whether Sherlock Holmes was hitting on him with a short joke or not, the taller boy sailed across the room and into another bin. 

John cleared his throat. “Listen, about what happened back there—”

“I forgive you.”

John thought for sure he must have misheard Sherlock’s voice muffled by trash. 

“Come again?”

Sherlock rose from the next bin looking disgusted. “Ugh! Not this one!” He ran to the weightlifting team’s area and started all over again. 

“You mean for forcing you in the shower, or…” 

_ Almost snogging you? Because it seemed like you wanted it too, but now I’m getting mixed signals.  _

John was too distracted to dodge an empty tampon box. 

“For saying the Yard was capable! More capable than  _ me? _ Really, John, I know you were just trying to get rid of the girls, but there’s such a thing as being _desperate._ ” John could hear him rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe the women almost went for it! Think of our reputations.”

“You’re right,” John nodded. “You’re the smartest, most qualified person I’ll ever meet, and I put you in a class all your own.”

“Wisely so.”

“Of course.” 

John sat on the nearest bench. The silence was painful, filled only by the sound of the shower and his best friend pawing through the trash. What could he say? Now was hardly the time to confess, not with Sherlock headfirst in rubbish. Sod it all, he thought, he was going for it. If their time together was anything to go on, this was just as good a time as ever. You couldn’t expect a reasonable opportunity to confess your love to Sherlock Holmes! John stood, squared himself against what may come, opened his mouth, and —

“You flirted with Mary.”

John lost all sense of his faculties. 

“Just now.”

He blinked. When he came back to himself, he said, “What?” even though what he really meant was, “ _ What the HELL, Sherlock, I don’t fucking like Mary!” _

“Oh, please, John,” Sherlock muttered. “Not  _ that _ again.”

“I only asked her questions for the case!”

“Unnecessary dribble. Clearly an attempt to break the ice.”

_ “How can you be this way?  _ You infuriating, gormless—!”

Sherlock shot from the bin, this time holding a crimson, leather makeup bag. 

“Got it! Ha!” The glee on his face was unparalleled. “Scotland Yard can suck it.”

At the very least, John now knew that therapy was good for something. He imagined an ocean instead of strangling the obstinate man before him and sighed. “And what, praytell, is so important about a bag of makeup?”

“A bag of hardly used drugstore makeup, John. Pay attention.”

“What’s that matter? My sister wears drugstore makeup!” John threw up his hands. He knew he was being petty and that Sherlock was probably about to bust the whole case with a tube of lipstick, but you have to understand, he’d had a trying day. 

“The world is full of obvious things which nobody ever observes. Look, I’ll show you.” He went to cracking every locker along the wall. A combination never slowed him down. John looked in and noticed a pattern.

Hardly any of them had makeup, and if they did, it was a brand name.  Clé de Peau. Urban Decay. Dior. Names he only recognized from humoring Harry every Christmas by dressing in their best clothes and haunting department stores. You might actually get to try something on if the clerks thought you were rich.

“Girls don’t wear makeup when they play sports, John. They’d just sweat it off, and if they did, they wouldn’t leave it here, would they? After they freshen up, they’d just need it again in the morning. And so what if she were a little high-maintenance? The kind of woman who attends Conan is already wealthy. Couple that with vanity enough to play hockey in full warpaint, and you have a woman who wears only the best, not this sort here.” He pawed through the makeup. “E.L.F. is the cheapest kind!”

John had a lot of weird conversations with his roommate, but this was probably the weirdest.

He turned his palms up and cocked his head, his brows knitted and his shoulders shrugging in a motion that asked, “And you know this how…?” 

Sherlock rolled his head, his eyes, his entire body, and scoffed, “Makeup is important for disguises! I can’t do undercover work looking this handsome all the time!”

He had a point there. 

“Well, how do you know it isn’t a scholarship kid or someone like me?  _ Mary,” _ he stressed the name, “doesn’t strike me as a rich kid. Not everyone can afford the best.”

“If they can’t afford the best, then why throw away something practically brand new?”

Another point for Sherlock Holmes. 

“So, the makeup tells us who the pervert/stalker is because…?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Sherlock. “I’m still working that out.”

The room fell quiet. 

“Do you hear that?” asked Sherlock. 

John listened. “I don't hear anything but the showers.” 

“Exactly,” said Sherlock, making for the bathrooms down the corridor. “The gym closes at six. That was twenty minutes ago. Someone’s still here!”

He bolted.

“Sherlock, wait!” Oh, God. John hoped Sherlock was right and the pervert was conveniently soaking it up, otherwise they’d have some explaining to do. What if it were a girl running late, too afraid to come out after hearing male voices? Even Mycroft couldn’t talk them out of this one, but as John rounded the corner he froze. 

A warm fog filled the room, condensing on mirrors and dripping down into sinks. If Sherlock hadn’t stopped, hadn’t locked up in the middle of the room, John would have tripped over her in the haze. He recognized her as a year thirteen, Agatha Bell, a member of the weightlifting team. Her fingertips were pruned from being in the water too long and her black hair clung to her face which was scalded from the hot showers. Around her flowed a steady cloud of red water, circling orange down the nearest drain. 

“Is she… Is she  _ dead?” _ asked Sherlock. Normally he didn’t ask anything, and he always spoke of wanting a murder to solve, but now, gazing down at the form of this naked girl laying flat on her back, he seemed shellshocked. He never thought his first murder would be someone he knew, even if he didn’t know her well.

John took the initiative. He knelt down and took her pulse.

“Go get Molly,” he told Sherlock calmly. He didn’t hear him move, so he looked up. “She’s not dead. Go get Molly and have Mary call an ambulance. Hurry.”

Sherlock started breathing again. For a moment he looked disappointed, but then schooled his features into indifference and something like horror, perhaps at himself. He nodded crisply and made for the exit while John inspected for wounds. The girl was on the heavier side so it was difficult to turn her over. If not for the constant trickle of blood he wouldn’t have noticed. She’d been stabbed clean through with the tiniest knife imaginable, or something like it, but there was no weapon, nothing. 

He’d leave that to Sherlock. John groped around for a towel and pressed hard into the lower back. God, how was this woman still alive?

Sherlock came into the room with Molly and Amanda in tow.

Molly gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Agatha! Oh, God, what’s happened?” 

The girls turned to Sherlock for an explanation, but he was too busy scanning the room, looking for anything that could give them the answer. 

“Amanda, turn that off,” said John, jerking his head towards the shower. “Molly, go wait for the police. Explain why we’re here. Maybe find something we can drape over Agatha until the EMTs arrive. Sherlock,” he broke his focus, “grab a dry towel and come here.”

Everyone obeyed orders without question. When Sherlock was on his knees beside him, John said, “Nurse, press here. Hard!”

“Nurse?” Sherlock sputtered, but he did as he was told.

“Yeah,” said John. “I’m making do. Keep pressure on the wound!”

Sherlock scowled. His bedside manner could use some practice, but he was effective enough. John went about checking Agatha’s vitals. Her blood pressure was dangerously low and she was burning up. 

“Is she gonna make it?” 

John didn’t know. Molly was outside waiting for the police and Amanda couldn’t hold it together, so she left to wait in the gymnasium. John couldn’t blame her. If it were Sherlock bleeding out on the ground, he doubted he’d keep his cool either.

John shook his head. “It’s not looking good. Who knows how long she’s been here?”

“Judging by the pruning on her hands,” Sherlock began hesitantly, looking up to make sure he wasn’t doing what John called “unhelpful commentary.” When John nodded it was okay, he finished, “I’d say she’s been lying here for at least thirty-five minutes. That’s factoring in the blood loss. She wouldn’t still be alive if it’d been any longer than that.”

John swallowed, nodding his thanks. 

After a moment, he said, “Who did this, Sherlock, and why?”

Sherlock whispered to himself. “The how seems the more pressing question. If we can’t figure out how, we can’t prove who or why. But the weapon? Where’s the weapon? We saw the boy leaving the scene. I saw the flash of his camera. Was it a boy? There’s so much we don’t know!” Sherlock ground his teeth. A three-patch problem for sure. 

He broke with his thoughts when he glanced over at his friend. John’s adam's apple bobbed and his eyes were bloodshot. He clenched his eyes shut and his mouth moved without speaking.

Praying.

_ God, please let her live. _ Is that what his father had prayed in his final moments? Please let me live? Please let me see my family again? Did he even have time? Jesus, John wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t know anything about medicine yet! How was he supposed to save this girl? What would he tell her parents? The police? Sorry, better luck next time?

John thought he was going to be sick. He couldn’t do it. Conan was a mistake. He was a fraud, thinking a nobody from nothing like him could ever study medicine, could ever save someone from death. 

Death. All it ever did was take from him, from everybody. He hated it.

John felt the beginnings of the quakes. That’s what he called them, the moments he shook so hard he couldn’t control his own body. The first time it happened Harry tried to give him a plate of pretzels. She thought he was just being a tosser when he’d flung it across the floor. He was losing it, retreating into the jungle of his own mind, when he felt a reassuring squeeze and a thumb stroking the back of his hand. He opened his eyes. 

Sherlock was there holding his gaze, insisting he meet him breath for breath.

“That’s right, John, you’re safe. You’re okay. You’re doing so well.”

Sherlock kept pressure on Agatha’s lower back, but with his free hand, he caressed John’s face, wiping away the moisture that’d gathered beneath his eyes. Must’ve been the steam.

“You’re wrong about those things.”

Fuck. Had he said something out loud? What had he said?

“You do belong here. You’re not a fraud. Conan isn’t a mistake. Where the hell do you think I’d be without you?”

Sherlock pulled John’s forehead to his own and moved his hand to the back of John’s neck, rubbing smooth circles. “You will be a doctor, John, and it won’t be easy. You won’t save them all.”

John squeezed his eyes shut. His chest shook like a sob. 

“But you will save this one. I know it.”

John exhaled, a million worries lifted off his shoulders. Sherlock wouldn’t lie to him. Sherlock only told the truth. He didn’t care how ugly it was or who it upset. Sherlock always told the truth.

He didn’t trust his voice, but rasped out, barely above a whisper, “God, I’m so happy you’re here. She’d be dead without you.”

“No.” He brushed his lips across John’s forehead as he spoke, not quite a kiss, but something more intimate. “You’re the doctor. I’m just the detective. I’ll solve this murder, but you’re the one who saved her life tonight.”

John felt better having Sherlock near. He kept the quakes at bay, the dreadful anxiety from bursting from the bottle, and when he felt too much like it’d shatter, Sherlock held him as tight as he could, whispering ridiculous notions that John was worth ten of him, that John was every wonderful thing he’d ever said about Sherlock multiplied by numbers not yet conceived. 

The boys held on to one another until the EMTs arrived, and when the police came, Sherlock took hold of John’s hand.

He never let it go. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock was almost sad to leave the police station.

Almost. 

Normally when he was arrested or otherwise detained, the police lectured him on “leaving the detecting to the detectives” or how“experimenting on corpses without a license is illegal” or how “cocaine is a highly addictive party drug, not something we do when we’re bored.” Tonight, however, they commended the boys for coming to the girls’ aid and went on about what a hero John was for staying with Agatha until help arrived. 

Anyone who had something nice to say about John was tolerable. 

They wanted to hold the boys until their parents arrived, but John’s mother had a job she couldn’t afford to leave, so he called her and assured her he was alright and that it was an accident (it wasn’t) until he handed the phone to an officer that explained the whole thing beautifully. He made John into a damn saint. 

Sherlock listened to Mrs. Watson on the end of the receiver. She was loud enough to hear, but not so loud John would know if he didn’t let on. Sherlock’s hearing was just one of the many things he’d honed for detective work. 

“Darling, your father would be so proud! This is something you should talk about in therapy though. Episodes like this can be traumatic! You have started therapy again, haven’t you? Ella says you haven’t contacted her and nothing is showing on my insurance.”

Therapy? Does John go to therapy? 

John blushed and darted his eyes toward Sherlock who made a point of staring in the opposite direction.

“Mum, I can’t talk about it here. My friend is with me.”

“Friend?” Her tone changed. “That friend you’re always blogging about? I don’t like it, John. I didn’t like it the first time with that awful cartel.”

That  _ wasn’t  _ the first time. 

“I don’t want you getting into trouble and neglecting your studies because of this boy. What kind of boy is he anyway? Barging into a girls locker room.”

_ “I _ was in the locker room too, Mum. The girls asked us to investigate.”

Mrs. Watson scoffed. “Well! It’s fun to play hero, but I want you to put a stop to it! One of these days you’ll get shot running with that boy.”

He already did. 

“Mum,” John pleaded in a voice that said he was quite finished with the conversation, “Sherlock is my best friend. You’ve read my blog, you know all about him! He isn't bad. He’s brilliant! He’s a generation-defining genius.”

_ Jesus Christ. Don’t talk about my intelligence like that in public, John! I have to frequent this police station, _ Sherlock thought. To an outside party, he looked downright bashful, an expression no one knew what to do with. Officer Gaswell offered Sherlock a shock blanket, and he took it to cover things he’d rather keep hidden. 

“I don’t care if he’s Albert Einstein!” Mrs. Watson continued. “If I catch you in one more scrape with Sherlock Holmes you’re coming straight home! Do I make myself clear?”

John sighed. A scrape with Sherlock Holmes was a fucking certainty. “Crystal, ma’am.”

“Good.” Sherlock could practically hear her nodding through the phone. “Call me and your sister every day for the next week. We want to make sure you’re alright.”

And with that, she hung up.

Cynthia Watson sounded nothing like Sherlock’s mum. Mummy Holmes doted on him from afar, fussing and worrying about his preoccupation with death, but after what his sister Eurus did, Mrs. Holmes kept her distance and didn’t meddle. She never denied him anything, and she certainly never threatened him, but he supposed that was the way with ordinary people's parents. 

Sherlock was on John the moment he hung up the phone, hugging him tightly around the waist. John blushed and stiffened in his arms, and Sherlock wondered if he’d misread the situation in the bathroom.

Sherlock pulled away and cleared his throat. “So,” he began, “If we leave now, we’ll only be fourteen minutes late for your game night.”

John looked surprised. “You want to go? But you said you didn’t like being pleasant.” John was trying to be serious but his grin gave him away. “If we go to Lestrade’s, you’ll have to be at least fifty percent pleasant.”

“Ten?”

“Twenty?”

“Done.”

John looked at Sherlock like he was trying to deduce him. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. Maybe Mike wasn’t such a fucker for confusing the two words after all. 

John reached out and threaded his pinky finger through Sherlock’s. Something had changed between them, but Sherlock didn’t know what. It wasn’t straight, that was for sure, but it wasn’t gay either. Did John think of him as a brother?

Dear God, he hoped not. 

“Wait,” John grabbed his whole hand as he tried to exit the station. “Don’t you have to call your parents?”

How adorable, Sherlock thought. John assumed other people cared about him. Best to humor him. “Right you are,” said Sherlock, and he took up the phone.

It rang and John heard a woman’s voice on the other end. 

“Anthea?” said Sherlock. “I’m at the police station. I’ve been taken for questioning.”

“Are they pressing any charges against you?” This was not the voice of a concerned mother.

“No. We saved someone’s life. We’re aiding an investigation. That’s all there is to it.” 

“Good,” said Anthea. “I’ll relay the information to your brother. Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, Anthea. I’m sorry for disturbing your evening. Have a nice night.” 

And he hung up the phone, quick to reclaim John’s hand on his way out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the beginning of every chapter I write is one giant dumpster fire until I get warmed up. Maybe my life is a dumpster fire. The data is inconclusive. 
> 
> Also, I promised my best Ao3 buddy Umbrella Academy references, and those are coming right up in 14! Promise!


	14. The worst thing that I ever did was what I did to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go out for pub trivia with Sherlock as the star player. There's just one problem with that...
> 
> In which John makes a promise then immediately breaks it and Sherlock's heart.  
> It'll take a big-ass gesture to get himself out of this mess.

Chapter 14

He wasn’t too proud to admit it:

John fucking hated heights. 

When Mike gave John the Explicit Edition tour of Conan, he’d pointed to a large elm tree growing outside of he and Lestrade’s window. The headmaster never cut the tree down, possibly because he never imagined anyone would be _fucking crazy enough to climb seven stories._

“You know there are easier ways in the Hall, mate? You do know that, right?” John hugged the trunk so tightly he got splinters in his thighs. 

“Yeah,” said Sherlock. He pulled himself up branch after branch. Unbothered bastard. “This one involved the least amount of talking.”

He stopped to look after his friend. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Sherlock was already at the fourth floor. John was about three meters off the ground. 

“We’ve jumped over rooftops higher than this!” 

“I was hyped up on adrenaline! Give me a break. This is horrifying.”

“John,” Sherlock shimmied down the tree as fast as he’d climbed it, “I know someone of your stature is accustomed to being low to the ground, but just once, could you have higher aspirations?”

John clawed up another half a meter before he stopped to choke back vertigo. “Is that another short joke? You’re getting as bad as Harry.”

“Is this why you were so riled up in the gymnasium?” Sherlock stood on a branch and leaned casually against the tree. “A case of acrophobia?”

“If you mean do I think this whole situation is balls?” John huffed and pulled until he reached the third floor. “Then yes. This is the worst!”

Sherlock bit back a laugh. It warmed his heart to see John Watson out of sorts. 

“Well, hurry it up,” he said, leaning down to help John climb. “At this rate, we’ll make it to Lestrade’s by sunrise.”

“WHY do we have to DO this?” John wailed, half laughing, half hysterical. “Couldn’t you just sabotage the place again?”

“You didn’t like it when I did that.”

“Because you flooded our own floor!”

“Details,” waved Sherlock. 

It took Sherlock three times as long with John, but they did make it to the seventh floor. The boys tapped the window and it flew open. 

“Holy Hell!” Ryan ushered the boys inside. “Why are you sneaking into your own building?”

“No reason,” Sherlock answered. Apparently word hadn’t spread yet, but he didn’t take any chances. Talking about Agatha upset John, and he wouldn’t have John upset. The less people knew the better.

“Guys!” Gavin looked relieved to see them. Why? “I didn’t think you were coming. Get held up?”

Sherlock shrugged. Lestrade wasn’t worth the scan. Friends worry when their friends don’t show up on time without due notice. Mental Friendship Note #27. John held his life together with sticky notes and copious lists. Somewhere along the line, Sherlock adopted the habit. 

“We were helping Molly out with… something,” said John. “Did we miss much?” 

“No way, mate! We’re just getting started. We were actually thinking of going out. It’s trivia night at _The Crown Diamond.”_

“We come in dead last every month,” Tyler sulked. 

“But with Secret Weapon here, we might stand a chance!” Mike sat in the far corner with Betty on his knee. The two of them looked— Sherlock scanned— happy. Mike was well-groomed, Betty was dressed nicer than usual, and the two of them reeked of John’s body wash. 

Successful ~~seduction~~ deduction indeed. 

“Secret Weapon? Who’s the secret weapon?”

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and slowly looked at Sherlock.

They weren’t talking to him. Why weren’t they talking to him? John would be angry if he ruined game night!

“Am I… not supposed to know?” he asked.

John slapped his buddy on the back. “You know how you’re always going on about being the smartest person in the room?”

“Do not,” said Sherlock. “You know I value your little contributions.”

“In a room that I’m not in.”

Sherlock paused. “Oooh! Okay. Yes. Your point?”

“Sherlock, they’re talking about _you_.”

“Me?” Oh, bollocks. “I really don’t think that’s such a good—”

Brett Yang and Eddy Chen burst into the room carrying armfuls of gummy bears. 

“Alright, you dumb motherfuckers, this is what we’re putting up! What do you wager in return?”

Brett and Eddy were rugby lads, but also violinists, and also debate team champions. Every month they squared off against Stephen Goalla, Ryan, Tyler, Greg, and Mike in what they called, “A showdown for the ages,” betting candy and ridiculous dares on the victor of Pub Trivia. Tonight it was gummy bears and cross-dressing versus Lestrade’s team’s Cadbury Creme Eggs and playing bagpipes in the quad, full kilt, san pants, at the break of dawn. 

“You’re on!” John slapped down twenty quid in a show of faith. “Sherlock, me, Greg, Mike, and Tyler versus you two, Betty, Ryan, and Stephen. An even split. Does anyone protest?”

“John, can I please talk—”

“Hell yeah! Eddy and I can take you all.” Brett slapped down twenty quid himself with exceeding violence. Sherlock may or may not have insulted Brett and Eddy on bow technique. On occasion. All the time. Everyday. Sherlock felt his face turn green. 

Karma is a superstitious concept invented by mankind to regulate guilt, he told himself. 

Also, it was a bitch. 

“John, I’m begging you. You really want to stop talking right—”

“Let’s go!” Mike kissed Betty square on the mouth and marched out of the room. The nine other friends followed, leaving Sherlock standing in the middle of the room trying to find an adequate means of escape. 

He was doomed. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Brett and Eddy named their team _The Spanish In-Quiz-ition._ Lestrade and John declared their team _The Brewsual Suspects,_ in honor of the detective, the man, their key to certain victory.

John looked so happy, Sherlock didn’t know how to break the news. 

He _sucked_ at trivia. Sherlock Holmes could mix impossible chemical substances, do astronomical equations, and could name, by heart, eighty-seven different types of poisons and their symptoms in both living and dead bodies. He couldn’t, however, name pop stars or television shows (outside of the crap telly John liked to watch) and he knew deep down, though John would look stunning in a dress, that he’d kill him if they ended up cross-dressing in the quad because of him. 

“Mate, you okay?” John leaned over and squeezed Sherlock’s knee. 

“Yeah, great, obviously, why wouldn’t I be? Jesus, a man can’t be a little nervous? Back off, John.”

John had the audacity to look _understanding._ He patted Sherlock’s curls. “I know this is outside of your comfort zone. If you want to leave when it’s over, I’ll go with you, unless you want to be alone. I’d never want you any different than you are, so I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you taking an interest in hanging out with my friends. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and I want you to know you're changing me too, and you're... important. To me. I promise to be there for you like you've been there for me, like you were tonight.”

What the HELL was he supposed to say to that?

Sherlock choked. “Oh, God.”

John, that fucker, winked at him. “Not here.”

The first question out of the gate was, “A phlebotomist extracts what from the human body?”

 _I KNOW THAT! THANK YOU BRAIN, YOU GLORIOUS ORGAN._ He laughed with relief, a hysterical mess. The team scored their first point for the answer of blood, but they did get shushed because Holmes couldn’t hold it together. John beamed, thrilled to see Sherlock having a good time. 

He feigned modesty, insisting the team answer things like “Who was Prime Minister from 1979 to 1990?” and “Which famous pop singer sang ‘Like a Virgin?’” He could do this. He could fake it, and John was so proud of how modest and pleasant he behaved. The team made it to the final round, and it was a face-off between the two highest scores.

 _The Spanish In-Quiz-istion_ versus _The Brewsual Suspects._

He was gonna skate out of this. He was gonna make it! Sherlock wasn’t a praying man, but he felt divinely inspired to thank _somebody_ of a higher power than him. Maybe Mycroft?

Bleh. 

“Sherlock! Yeah! You take this one, mate. You’re the MVP!”

Lestrade and the other players slapped him on the back, cheering and pushing him to the front of the pub. Wait, alone? By himself? With no backing? That wasn’t how the game was played, not according to his Google search on the way over, but apparently it was a thing at _The Crown Diamond_ to honor the strongest players.

He looked John dead in the eye. “Vatican Cameos.”

John looked bemused. “What?”

 _That’s it. I’m dead,_ thought Sherlock. How could John not know Vatican Cameos? John’s father was in the military. It was a military phrase! It originated in World War II as a warning to stay out of the line of fire. A distress signal. HOW COULD HE NOT KNOW THAT?

But Sherlock supposed he hadn’t room to talk because John and all of John’s friends were about to find out just how much Sherlock didn’t know. 

But he could get lucky, right? The same universe that deigned to gift him John could deign to give him a question about complex chemistry, right?

Wrong. Very, wrong.

The announcer, reading loudly into a static-filled karaoke machine, asked, “Gentlemen, what is....” he waited for a drumroll from the audience, “THE CENTER OF OUR SOLAR SYSTEM?”

Fuck. 

Eddy scribbled on a dry erase paddle and Sherlock supposed he ought to do the same, even if it was a wild guess. Wouldn’t Mummy be ashamed? She worked twenty-two years as a mathematician for the Department of Astronomy and Space Exploration, and here it was that her own son was guessing the center of the solar system. 

He wondered if Mycroft would donate his whole body to the Royal Society, or just his brain. Pssst. What was he thinking? After this performance, Sherlock’s brain wasn’t worthy of dissection. Mycroft would probably burn his birth certificate to erase the shame. 

Eddy held up his paddle.

THE SUN

Sherlock held up his.

THE EARTH

The teams descended into pandemonium, Brett and Eddy bounding and Betty dancing on the nearest table. Somehow she found a violin and could play it just decently enough (to a layman's ears) to grind out _We Are the Champions._

Meanwhile, Lestrade and Mike were absolutely beside themselves, somehow on their knees and their backs at the same time, screaming in agony. 

Sherlock couldn’t bear to look at John and peeled out of the pub. He’d just about decided to scale _The Field Bazaar_ and become a hobo on Jabez’s roof when John caught him by the shoulder and jerked him off the rain pipe. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? I just told you I don’t like you climbing things!”

So much for his plan. He was caught. Busted. Apprehended. 

“John, I can explain…”

John stood back with his arms folded. He was listening.

Sherlock stalled. What would he say? I let you down? Please don’t see that you can do better than me and give up on whatever it is we are currently starting but rather inconveniently haven’t labeled? So he went on the offensive. 

“I deleted it.”

“Deleted it?”

“Listen. This is my hard drive,” he pointed at his brain, “and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish! And that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

John was giggling. Why was he giggling? Giggling is…good? 

“But it’s the solar system!” he protested. “Primary school stuff!”

Sherlock wouldn't be reasoned with. “What does that matter? So we go ’round the sun. If we went ’round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn’t make any difference! Stop that! Stop laughing!”

John was doubled over, holding his sides and gasping for air. 

“I can’t, I can’t! It- it won’t stop!” And he fell sideways in the street. “Can I — Wait! Don’t leave! I’m sorry! — Can I put this in the blog?”

“No!” 

John finally had the dignity to pick himself up off the sidewalk. He approached Sherlock like a man might approach a baby deer. 

“You’re spectacularly ignorant about some things, but you’re the most fun I’ve ever had. That was awesome! Hilarious really, but no one’s laughing at you.” John made a face, and Sherlock made a face, and John amended, “Okay, so they’re totally laughing at you… But in a nice way!”

“So… you’re not angry? With me?”

“Of course not! Sherlock, is that why you were trying to scale the building?”

“Building,” Sherlock grunted. He kept his eyes on the pavement but jerked his head towards _The Field Bazaar._ “Our building, sort of. In a roundabout way.”

John softened. He was still smiling, but now in a fond way, nostalgic.

“Our first adventure you mean?”

“The unwritten. For the best, really. Your mum would have spirited you away months ago.” 

The boys laughed, bathed in the light of the flickering street lamp, the shadows of moths flickering across their faces. 

“Come back inside, Sherlock. Eddy and Brett will give you shit, but from what I understand, that’s owed. Everyone else will have to go through me. No fighting, of course, but I’m pretty sassy.”

“No putting anyone’s head through a damn wall, young man.”

John smiled, snickering breathlessly.

“Do you know how to dance?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“What?” asked John.

Sherlock looked left and right like he was checking to see if the coast was clear. In the next instant, he stood in a ballet stance, fourth position, folded his arms in a dainty way, and twisted out, turning on the tips of his toes with the speed and grace of an ice dancer.

John gaped. He stood absolutely awestruck. 

“I love dancing. Love it,” Sherlock motioned with a chef’s kiss. “My mum’s had me in ballet classes since I was seven.”

If John didn’t close his mouth soon, he’d find himself with quite a few bugs in it. 

“John?”

Was this the wrong thing to reveal? Some men didn’t respect ballet, not for other men. 

“Sherlock, that’s… That’s fucking AWESOME! Wait, since you were seven? Like, as in you take them currently?”

Sherlock blushed. “Oh, you know… It isn't something I want to get around. Let’s just say if detecting doesn't work out, I have an open invitation from the Royal Ballet.”

“Ha!” John staggered back combing his hands through his hair. “This is the best! This is the best night!” Then he realized what he was saying. His hands dropped and he sobered up quick, thinking of Agatha.

“I shouldn’t say that,” he said. “I don’t know why I did.”

He looked at Sherlock. Something determined clicked in his eyes. John straightened up. He normally only did this when he was getting ready for battle. With the twitch of his jaw, he swaggered forward, his face tipped upward, and he stood a breath away.

“Actually, I do. I do know why I said that. I know exactly why I feel this way when I’m around you,” he breathed. He reached up and took hold of Sherlock’s face, his thumbs ghosting over Sherlock’s cheekbones. John had an unnatural preoccupation with them. 

Sherlock didn’t move. 

John shot up on his tiptoes, but before he could connect, the door to _The Crown Diamond_ opened, and he shoved Sherlock back. 

It wasn’t even anyone they knew.

“John?” Sherlock swallowed. The moment was gone, and he might never get it back. 

John didn’t answer. Sherlock followed him back into the pub, but they didn’t dance. They didn’t speak, and on the car ride back to Conan, when Sherlock tried to hold his hand, John moved it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for doing this, but I promise John will be over his issues and begging Sherlock to be his boyfriend/groveling for forgiveness in the most epic display imaginable very soon!


	15. When #2 Hits the Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes the biggest mistake of his life, Molly and Sherlock have a bonding moment over rubbish and heartfelt conversation, and Tyler asks a pretty good question. 
> 
> It's about to go down.

Chapter 15

John tried to act like everything was normal back in Greg’s dorm.

Normal. 

How he hated the word. 

All his life he’d been _abnormal. Weirdo. Freak._ Why? 

Why didn’t John want him back?

Sherlock thought he’d found a person who ~~loved him~~ accepted him the way he was, but he was wrong. All the crazy shit he was into — experimenting on corpses, playing with deadly chemicals, solving murders and busting bank robberies in a hail of gunfire — and _his sexuality_ was what John took issue with? Not even Sherlock’s sexuality, but other people knowing about John’s own? That was the deal-breaker?

Sherlock was absolutely seething. He couldn’t fucking stand it. The boys played Risk, and Sherlock decimated them all within the first thirty minutes. His mission was to take over North America and Australia, and he purposefully baited John into the land down under just so he could make it a goddamn bloodbath. 

Therapeutic, really. 

John nudged him several times during the game, telling him to “chill out.”

He would NOT fucking chill out.

The other boys shrugged it off as saltiness over Pub Trivia, but John knew better. 

He knew it was because of him, yet he did nothing. He swept it under the rug as he had Sherlock.

The boys played _Rugby Challenge 3_ on Greg’s television. Sherlock was offered a controller and toddled half-heartedly. He didn’t know shit about rugby, and he didn’t want to. More useless rubbish he’d stomached for John. 

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” said Stephen, a kind-eyed boy and the rugby coach’s son. “I suck at video games too, but not on the field where it _really_ counts, unlike some people.” He lobbed his head dramatically in Eddy and Brett’s direction.

“Oi! We’re… decent!”

“It’s not like any of you lot are any better,” said Brett.

John spoke from his place on the floor. He was belly-up on a bean bag. 

“Sherlock would be good at rugby,” he said absentmindedly, playing as a wing on the telly. “He could probably deduce every injury, every weak point, what move they’d make before they made it. I’m telling you, the man can spot another bloke’s weakness from the mud on his cleats!”

Tyler and Ryan scoffed. 

“You think Holmes is wonderful at everything,” started Ryan, “and if he isn’t yet, he would be.”

Ryan cursed as he lost possession. 

“He could shit, and it’d be the best shit in the world,” finished Tyler. “In your opinion, of course.”

Sherlock bristled, irritated they were talking about him as if he wasn’t there. 

“That’s not true,” defended John. He perked from his game. “Sherlock really _can_ do all those things. But I haven’t been logging his shits.”

That earned a laugh from everyone in the room.

“Why don’t you admit it,” Betty finally cut in. She couldn’t hold her beer as well as the boys, mostly because she was incredibly small and also because she never drank. No one but Greg was old enough, but the bartender was a man of loose morals where the tips of spoiled private school students were concerned. 

“Admit what?”

“That you’re in love with him.”

Betty hiccuped and giggled into Mike’s chest, but no one else was laughing. 

Greg forced a laugh out to try to ease the tension. Worse yet, John joined in till everyone was laughing.

“I’m not gay!” he insisted.

It cut like a knife. 

“Betty’s right!” said Mike, a man who knew which side his bread was buttered on. “The way you blog about him, you’re practically proposing!”

“You’ve a crush on Sherlock Holmes!”

“We’re just friends!”

And Sherlock couldn’t stand it. He stormed out of the room.

John was quick to follow.

“Told you,” muttered Eddy, but Greg kicked him and told him to shut up.

John’s words battered at his skull.

_I promise to be there for you like you’ve been there for me._

_I don’t understand everything that you need, but I try because you’re important to me. I care about you, Sherlock._

_I know exactly why I feel this way when I’m around you._

_You’re the most fun I’ve ever had._

Was that all he was to John? Fun?

“Sherlock!” John chased after him. He was smiling.

 _Fake,_ Sherlock deduced. 

“Hey, don’t let those guys get to you. They’re only teasing.”

“They didn’t get to me,” Sherlock snarled. “You did!”

He hated himself the moment he said it. 

Because it was true. 

“Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side! I’ve always known it.”

“Sentiment?” answered John. His facade was crumbling. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock shot out and gripped John’s hand, holding his wrist. John jerked it away. Sherlock was so angry it almost didn’t hurt.

“You think I’m interested in you? Like that? Because of the pub?”

“No,” cut Sherlock. “Because I took your pulse.”

The hall was silent, not a soul about except the two of them. 

“Elevated.” He let his words pierce. “Your pupils,” he continued, “dilated. I imagine you think love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.”

He practically spit the word as he started for his room.

His. He’d get John moved or move himself if it was the last thing he did. He wouldn’t live with the man.

“Sherlock, wait! I wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” Sherlock turned almost screaming. “Wasn’t serious? Didn’t mean it? It’s okay, John. I understand, and I respect it. I really do.” He struggled to calm himself. It wasn’t John’s fault. John was confused. John was experimenting with his sexuality. People did that.

God, experimenting. 

Is that why everyone hated him so? For playing with probability and people like they were nothing? 

“It was just an experiment to you,” he breathed, “but it was everything to me.”

John didn’t speak. Somehow that hurt more.

“It’s okay if you aren’t gay, John, but I am.”

There, God, he finally said it. Sherlock wasn’t closeted, but he felt _alarmed_ by sex. He never talked about it if he could help it. It was just something he recognized in himself. 

“Harry’s gay,” John finally said, “and it doesn’t bother me. It’s okay.”

“I know it’s okay!” snapped Sherlock. “Having a gay family member doesn’t make you the authority on all gay things!”

Especially since John couldn’t recognize he was some sort of bisexual/demisexual hybrid.

“I know that!” defended John. “I’m just saying it’s okay.”

“But it’s not!” Maturity be damned. “What you did back there was not okay, even I’m not socially braindead enough not to know that! And I took your pulse, John. I took your vitals. It’s okay if you don’t want to choose this, but if you’re going to lie, at least lie to someone who’s an idiot and not me.”

John’s protests fell on death ears.

Sherlock was gone.

______________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock thought about shooting up, but he was determined not to do anything reckless after so long a break, not for John’s sake.

God, why did it hurt so much?

He knew he shouldn’t be so angry, shouldn’t be reacting this way. John had different challenges. He came from a conservative family, so conservative his sister Harry had been hiding in plain sight for two years. John prayed. Sherlock scoffed at people who did before, but he respected the hell out of it in John. John believed in impossible things, like people, like hope, like love, like friendship, until Sherlock had halfway believed them too. He still believed in them, heaven help him, even if doing so had blown up in his face.

He thought about running back to John to apologize, but he remembered John’s words. 

_“I was in the wrong, Sherlock. It’s okay for you to be angry, but not okay for me.”_

Who was in the wrong? Sherlock didn’t know, but John was more intelligent about these things. It _felt_ like John was the one who needed to apologize? So was Sherlock’s anger okay?

He decided to sod the whole thing and dive into the case. If Sherlock needed to apologize, John could man up and tell him so. If the other way around, John knew where to find him.

What if he came back to the dorm?

Sherlock decided he wasn’t ready to face him and pulled out his phone. He took the stairs to the basement and called the most important people on campus:

The custodians.

Headmasters were overpaid, stuffy, and dull. Teachers tried to teach kids things they “needed” to know, only to have the lot thrown out the second a test was over. But custodians? They kept the damn school afloat, and they were ever so good at finding things dodgy people would rather throw out. 

The basement is where Molly found him, ripping and rooting like a hog through bundles and bundles of rubbish.

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing?”

All Molly wanted was to get away from Aiken House and her friends, from talk of Agatha and the stalker. Molly's uncle was the instructor over Baker Hall, and she often did her laundry in the Baker Hall basement when she came to visit him and the machine's in Aiken House were full up. Boys didn't seem to do laundry as much. Usually, it was more convenient. 

Not today, however. 

Sherlock popped up, bits of used toilet paper sticking to his head. It was truly a new low in not caring for himself. 

“Oh, hello, Molly!” he said and sounded like he actually meant it. 

Was he high again?

“Show me your arms.”

“What?”

“Don’t talk like John. Show me your arms!”

Sherlock did, and Molly was appeased. Not a fresh mark on him, though she supposed they could be somewhere else.

“So… I’m not trying to bother you or anything, but you see, I was coming to do a bit of laundry, and your trash heaps are blocking the door.”

“It isn’t trash,” Sherlock sulked. “It’s evidence.”

“Evidence?” said Molly. “You mean for Agatha?”

“Who else do we know who’s been half-killed on this campus!” Sherlock threw up his arms.

Meek Molly, her regular personality, didn’t say a word but looked dangerously upset. 

He sighed. “I’m… sorry?” Yes, he was big on apologies. John owed _him_ an apology. 

Molly sat down her laundry basket and crouched, sitting on her haunches as Sherlock tore through the bags. “Have you found anything yet?”

“Makeup bag,” he said without elaborating. Normally he loved to talk about his cases. It helped clear them up when he talked out loud like he had to the skull before John. But he wasn’t feeling it tonight.

“Molly,” Sherlock finally said. “I…”

He looked up at her. It’d hurt when John hadn’t looked him in the eye. 

“Molly…” he swallowed. He felt pressure on his head. Why was that? Was he… was he crying? Yes, it seemed so. His nose was running, caused by excess tear and moisture production. Not that he hadn’t before, but it’d been a long time. Not since Eurus murdered his best friend, Victor Trevor, and Sherlock found him in a well with a dog collar around his throat, chaining him down. 

Redbeard. She’d cut it into the collar with a knife just to mock him. 

God, he felt ripped apart. It was so much worse than he remembered. He’d beat it back before, like in the hospital when he thought Mycroft had set John away, but it was too much now. Victor. John. His guilt he wasn’t even sure he should have. Agatha. Molly. His parents’ fear of him. Mycroft’s heavily veiled pity at his broken baby brother. Eurus’s remorseless laugh. His terror that he was just like her, too smart and too stupid at the same time to know how to be anything other than a deranged psychopath. Sociopath. What’s the fucking difference?

He barely registered Molly holding him, stroking back his hair. 

“I’m so sorry, Molly,” he mangled, trying to spit out words that didn’t want to come. “I never… I didn’t know what it felt like, loving someone who doesn’t want you back.”

She flinched at the words. 

“I’m not trying to sound like a self-absorbed,” he hiccuped on the tears, “self-absorbed arsehole. I’m really not. I knew how you felt, sort of, and I wasn’t kind to you. I pushed you and pushed you just to see how far I could go until you bloody stood up for yourself. I _experimented_ on you. I experimented with your feelings, and for that, I am so incredibly sorry.”

He looked up at her frantically. “Does it ever stop?” he asked. “Does it ever stop hurting like this?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Molly answered honestly, still holding his head beneath her chin and stroking his hair. “I’m still in love with you.” She swallowed and kept holding him. “I’d say… it fades somewhat. Doesn’t bleed unless you open it. Time heals all wounds, I suppose.”

No it wouldn’t. No it didn’t.

“I can’t love you like that, Molly,” he said, not unkind, just honest. He couldn’t stomach any more lies today. “Anyone would be honored to have you love them, and I am, but I just… don’t.”

Molly cried too, silently. “I know,” she finally said, breaking every word like a fine china plate. “It’s you. It’s always been you, but maybe one day it won’t be. After all, it’s not like what you and John have.”

“John and I have _nothing,_ ” and he didn’t say it with anger, only heartbreak.

“Yes you do,” said Molly. She stroked his hair like he wished his own mother would, like he wished Mummy Holmes had on the night of Victor’s murder. “You never loved me. I thought if I loved you hard enough, you would have to love me back. Like trying to draw water from a stone. But you and John love each other, even if it’s hard for him to accept it, even if he doesn’t see it straight away.” 

She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead like she’d imagined so many times, but in her heart she let him go. She would stand by Sherlock Holmes in this new form, a friend, and she longed for nothing more than that. Finally, a piece of her felt… better. 

Healed. 

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Love does, even if it’s not the kind you're hoping for. 

She gently pushed him away, looking fondly at his splotchy face. 

“What do you say I help you here? I’ll start the wash, sort this out with you, and we can sneak you in the girls' dormitory. I expect you won’t want to see John. Not just yet. We can eat ice cream and do facials and yoga and set things on fire if you like.” 

She took a box of matches from the trash.

“Don’t get excited,” she said. “I mean scented candles. I needed a new box of these. Funny someone threw them out.” She opened them and made a face.

“What is it?” asked Sherlock. Molly wasn't the sort to be easily distracted from inviting him anywhere. He'd tried.

“It… looks like a camera,” said Molly, turning it over in her hands. “A really small camera.”

Sherlock snatched it.

“Sorry,” he apologized quickly and looked over the clue. 

“Oh my God, Molly, you did something useful! Do you know what this is?”

He didn’t wait for her to say no.

“This is a matchbox camera! Do you have any idea how rare these are? No one would just throw it away, not unless it were an accident. Not unless they were hiding something.”

He looked inside and found film.

“It’s Christmas!”

“I’m sorry?” said Molly, a bit bewildered since only a second ago she’d been consoling a despondent Sherlock who, up until a few months ago, showed no sign of other emotions besides annoyance. 

“It’s a spy device, Molly!” he went on. “Developed by the OSS, the department that went on to be the CIA in the United States. They were used in the Cold War. We used them too, but they’re such a distinctly _American_ device. Why would it be in the trash?”

He sat up and pocketed the matchbox.

“Which bag did you find this in?”

“Um, that one?” motioned Molly.

Sherlock shimmied his whole body inside.

“Sherlock! That’s disgusting! What if there’s poo?”

“Of course there’s poo!”

He jerked out singing “Eureka!” and holding a blonde wig. 

A peculiar thing about the wig, it was shaved down on one side, a distinctive hairstyle. Odd, Halloween was only three days away. Why would someone throw out a new— he sniffed (Oh, yeah. Totally brand spanking new) — wig right before the holiday? He supposed they could have messed up on the cut, but it looked so professional, like it was supposed to look that way. And really, what were the odds of a Soviet-era spy camera being in the same trash from Kipling as a discarded wig?

Coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy. 

“Wait!” cried Molly as he hopped into the elevator. Land sakes, he almost forgot Molly!

This new friend business was going to take some getting used to. 

“Aren’t you going to search the rest of them?”

“No need,” he said, shutting the doors. “We’ve got what we need.”

“No we don’t,” Molly groused, and Sherlock looked down at her.

“What do you mean?”

Molly fished a pencil out of her lab coat pocket and used the end of it to remove a bit of used, hanging toilet paper from Sherlock’s shoulder.

Number two.

“You need a shower,” she said holding her nose, “and you’re not setting foot in my dormitory until you take one!"

Blah.

Then suddenly, "I hugged you!”

Sherlock smiled.

Molly, finally standing up for herself. 

All it took was poo.

__________________________________________________________________________

Ryan swaggered down the hall, a bit sauced off of one too many of Lestrade’s secret beers.

“You know,” he belched, “Sherlock’s almost bearable whenever John’s around.”

“Yeah,” said Tyler, trying not to think about the elephant in the room. They all felt a little guilty for laughing. Oh hell, they felt fucking terrible. Sherlock wasn’t a bad bloke. He wasn’t a bad bloke at all. The more they knew him, the more they liked him. 

“We’ve got to figure out a way to make that a permanent thing.”

“Do you really think John is straight?” asked Betty. She’d sobered up and felt _awful._ Not hungover, mind you. That would come later, but simply awful for making Sherlock leave. He’d been so nice to her, and he’d given Michael a talk about showering after practice. Why, she felt in a roundabout way that she and Michael might not be together at all without Sherlock! 

Ryan shook his head. He had a feeling this was more about John than Betty, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “He might be straight for us, but Watson’s as gay as the day is long for Sherlock Holmes.”

“How do you figure that?” Mike asked.

“Don’t be daft!” Ryan went to slam down his fist to aid his point, but there was nothing to connect with mid-air. It threw his focus, but only for a moment. “What straight man do you know who’s always banging on about his best friend?”

Tyler whipped around. The drunken motion almost made him fall. 

“I bang on about you!”

“To embarrass me!” said Ryan. “John’s practically penning sonnets with that blog of his.”

Tyler agreed. Ryan had a point. Always so much wiser when he drank. 

“There’s not a bromance alive that dedicated.”

“But do you really think that Sherlock has… feelings? Oh, don’t look at me like that! I mean for John!” said Betty. 

“I don’t think it’s Sherlock who’s the problem,” soothed Mike. “It’s John who’s in denial.”

“You think Sherlock likes John? But he’s so…himself.”

Ryan turned on the heel of his boot, one finger pointed profoundly in the air, and he said, with one foot propped on Tyler, who’d slid to the ground to support his best friend’s Captain Morgan pose, “Have you ever known Sherlock to play videogames with us just because we asked? Go to the cafeteria, apologize, sit in on a rugby match, rush onto the field when one of us was injured in a scrum?”

It’d happened just last week. John took the position of Fly-Half when Greg was sick and couldn’t make it to practice. He provided something soft for the opposing back-rowers to land on, which was much appreciated, but if he took more than three minutes getting up, Sherlock had a runaway.

“Also,” Tyler interjected from the floor, “hanging out with us is the equivalent of a girl hanging out with her boyfriend’s mates. 

“Suffering for love,” Ryan clasped his hands to his chest. “Sherlock Holmes is in that boat.”

“Going down with the ship.”

“And Watson’s the lifeboat!”

Betty was not amused. “A regular Keats, the pair of you.”

“Mark my words,” said Ryan, brandishing his beer. Stupid really, to have it out in the open. “By this time next year, Johnlock will be a go! I’d bet fifty quid on it.”

Tyler hesitated. He was having an idea, a brilliant idea!

A rarity for him.

“... How many people do you think we could put down on this?”

But before the grand plan could weave brilliantly together, John slid before them in his socks past the bend in the corridor. “Guys!” he sounded panicked. “I can’t find Sherlock anywhere!”

Ryan smirked. “Slow down, Nancy, I’m sure he’ll be home for supper.”

“This isn’t funny!” screamed John. “I’ve done something _stupid!_ So fucking stupid it’s unreal! I can’t fix it if I don’t find him, and I probably couldn’t if I did! I’m such a wanker, I’m a fucking prick, that’s what I am! My sister would be ashamed of me, I’m ashamed of me, I can’t—”

“Slow down, mate!” cut Betty. “What the devil’s gotten into you? Surely you haven’t done anything _that_ bad.”

But he had. But oh God he had. 

John couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t think past regret, past something stronger than the fear of losing his mother’s love and losing his friends. He’d lost his best friend! He’d lost something more. The most important some _one_.

He opened his mouth to confess his sin, to tell the whole bloody thing right from the beginning like it was one of his blog posts, but when he did, what came pouring out was —

“I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes!”

Christ.

“And I almost kissed him outside of the pub and then lied about it to his face and pretended it meant nothing!”

The five friends stood quietly. No one knew what to say. 

“Hey, Ryan?” said Tyler. “Can I still take that bet?”

Well, one of them knew what to say.

And John's long day that turned into his long night got longer still. 


	16. John and the Kamikaze Plan from Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: If I keep my body moving and my mind occupied at all times, I will avoid falling into a bottomless pit of despair.
> 
> John: Imma get my right-hand man back.
> 
> OR  
> John's friends rally to his aid, but their loyalties are tested when he proposes a dangerous and desperate plan; Sherlock tries to break in Molly as his new assistant, but with violent results; a misunderstanding with Mary makes things worse than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really nervous about this chapter because it is such an important transition chapter. That and my writing suffers when my routine changes and I got quarantined again. I'm also quite anxious because I know my experiences are not everyone's experiences and I don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable.
> 
> *mentions of homophobia

Nottingham, Nottinghamshire, England 

2009

9 years earlier 

“Does he have asthma?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me where you live?”

Harry Watson was ten years old. Her mother left her in charge of her younger brother John and went to the cathedral in the city’s east end, something about an emergency in the parish. She always said she “had an emergency” somewhere, and for the longest time, Harry believed her. Pipes burst. Toilets backed up. Anywhere anytime could be an emergency for a plumber.

But there was nothing wrong with the plumbing at Saint Anne’s. 

It was just an excuse, a code: Dad's on the front. I'm praying. Don't worry.

“Just a second, we moved here last month.” Harry held the phone with her shoulder and riffled through the stacks of documents on the kitchen table until at last she found a bill with a current address. She read it off to the woman at the end of the line.

“Very good, sweetie. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know, I just walked in and he said he was _dying!_ Aren’t you sending anyone?”

“Don’t worry. An ambulance is on the way. I just need to know what’s the matter.”

“I don’t know!”

All Harry knew was that one moment she was waving goodbye to her friend’s mum who’d dropped her off from the guitar lesson she was supposed to have canceled, and the next, as she came through the door wondering if John had eaten the last ice lolly, she found her brother convulsing in front of the sofa. He was shaking; his breathing was all over the place, drawing too many breaths and then not any at all. His chest would rise in sticky, staccato motions and then fall shakily like he couldn’t inhale fast enough. She tried giving him some pretzels, giving him some water, holding him, but nothing worked. John really was dying.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s puking all over the fucking place that’s what he’s doing! He’s shaking and he can’t breathe!”

She looked at John crying on the floor. 

“God, he’s holding his chest. Is he having a heart attack?”

It was all her fault. Why did she leave him? He was only a year younger, but look what happened! 

“Did he eat anything?”

Harry threw the phone on the sofa and took John by the shoulders.

“Look at me. Look! Did you eat anything? Before this happened?”

John sucked in a dozen tiny breaths at once. It sounded like someone beating a paper bag. Harry could hardly understand him. 

“I ha-had an—'' John was cut off by his own breathing. “I-I-Ice loll-lolly.”

“That’s it? That’s all?” 

John nodded, but the motion made him look like the end of a rattlesnake. 

“Hello?” Harry took up the phone. “He says all he’s eaten is an ice lolly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m bloody sure!”

She wasn’t, but John could barely speak. She wasn’t about to interrogate him about his diet. He needed medical attention!

Harry stayed on the line till the ambulance arrived and rode with John to the emergency room. The EMTs looked at one another like they knew something she didn’t and put an oxygen mask over John’s face. Harry couldn’t tell they were doing a damn thing, but it calmed John, so she didn’t say anything. 

The hospital ran tests, the doctors asked questions, and eventually, someone managed to contact Cynthia. 

“Harry?” She shut the door to John’s room and rushed inside. She hugged both her children but was especially careful with John. “What’s happened? What’s the matter?”

Harry still didn’t know. No one would tell her anything.

“He’s had a panic attack, Mrs. Watson. That’s all.”

That’s all? _That’s all?_ Harry wanted to kill the man. John was seriously ill! There wasn’t anything “that’s all” about it!

“A…panic attack?” Cynthia asked. “That’s it?”

“No it’s not!” Harry stood up and screamed. “My brother was dying and you pillocks are too stupid to figure out why! Why don’t you just admit it?”

“Harry,” her mother said firmly. “Sit down.”

John took Harry’s hand and shook his head. 

Don’t fight. Not worth it. Stand down. 

Harry didn’t let go of John’s hand, and she certainly didn’t sit down.

“John,” said the doctor, “had a panic attack. They can be very scary.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” John finally chipped in. He didn’t like how the doctor spoke down to Harry like she was a child and thought vaguely he’d make a better physician than this one.

“No one’s talking to Harry like anything, John,” said Cynthia. She turned back to the doctor. “I don’t understand. You admitted my son for, what, overreacting?”

Overreacting my arse!

Harry nearly flew into a rage, and John almost let her, but he knew Mum was already angry.

The doctor, to his credit, did finally say, “Not exactly. Are there any stressors at home?” He gave the family a once over with a look that said he wouldn’t doubt it. “Anything going on that could upset him?”

“My dad’s away,” said John. He’d had enough of being talked about like he wasn’t there. “Mum said she went to work on the church’s plumbing, but that’s a lie isn’t it?” He frowned at her. “You didn’t take your tools. You’re also dressed too nice.”

Cynthia wore a pair of slacks and heels, not her coveralls or wellies. 

“Dad’s on the front, isn't’ he?” He looked at Harry.

Her's was the deepest cut of all.

She should have known he’d figure it out. 

“Did you think I was stupid?”

“You’re not stupid.” Harry fixed her gaze on their woven hands. “We just know how upset you get when you feel like you can’t _do_ anything.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Well, there you have it. John’s symptoms, the shaking, the hyperventilating, the nausea and upset stomach, all of those are common, even the chest pain. People say it does feel like a heart attack. The brain tells the body he’s under attack, and the body produces adrenaline in response. Problem is, he doesn’t need it. We’ll give you a printout at the front desk with information, but the important thing is just to keep him relaxed and let him know he’s safe.”

The Watsons left the hospital. None of them said a word to each other. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Conan Academy 

2018

The present day

“What’s wrong with him?”

_Jesus motherfucking Christ not now. Not in front of everybody._

John groaned, or tried to, as his breathing would permit. 

“It’s—It’s f—”

_Fuck._

“It’s fine, gu-guys!” he spat.

John didn’t feel fine, but he didn’t want his friends to worry. He needed to move, to fight, to do something, but Mike threw him on the bean bag chair while Greg dug through the closet. The whole dormitory was a nightmare. Empty bottles, crisps, and many a victimized donut littered the floor. An entire section of carpet was stained icing pink.

“Got it! Ryan, give this to him. I’ll go get some water.”

Greg threw a grey blanket at Ryan on his way out and nearly knocked the boy over.

“Jesus! What’s in this thing? It must weigh over a stone!”

Ryan made Tyler take an end of it and wrapped it around John. Mike picked him up and held him like he weighed no more than a kitten. 

“Weighted blanket,” explained Greg when he paced back in the room with a glass of water. He held it to John’s lips and made him drink.

“Is he going to be okay?” Mike practically rocked him.

The whole situation would have been funny if it weren’t for, well, everything. 

The adjectives were a toss-up between “worst” and “ridiculous.” The only good thing about today was Pub Trivia, and he’d buggered that pretty spectacularly. 

He convulsed at the memory.

“Should we call an ambulance?” 

Mike wouldn’t be consoled. He paced the room with John in his arms and Betty struggling to keep his pace.

“It’s a panic attack,” said Greg. “My sister had them when she was younger. He’ll be fine, but it could take a while.”

“Are you sure?” asked Mike.

“I’m sure,” said Greg. “Now put the man down. You’ll make him sick.”

Mike put John on the bottom bunk and looked on the verge of panic himself. Betty patted his shoulder. 

“Has this happened before?” asked Betty.

“Since… I was …. I was nine,” said John.

He was so careful. No one except his mum, sister, or Uncle James had ever witnessed one of his attacks. No one except Sherlock. He felt humiliated. Would Betty tell all the girls? Would the boys treat him differently? What if it got around to Sherlock? Would he even care?

He thought of Sherlock’s lips brushing against his forehead.

_That’s right, John, you’re safe. You’re okay. You’re doing so well._

_Where the hell do you think I’d be without you?_

He didn’t deserve Sherlock’s worry.

He didn’t deserve Sherlock.

How could he do something so insensitive? So ignorant? Then he realized:

He was afraid.

Of what? One second he held Sherlock’s face —the whole world— in his hands, thinking about how gorgeous and ethereal and otherworldly his eyes looked, and then, as he shot up to take his full lips between his own, the door opened and all he could see was his mum walking in on them.

Hating him. 

Stupid. Cynthia was three hours away. She didn’t believe in drinking. A pub outside of Conan was the last place she’d be, but that didn’t matter. John loved Sherlock. He was serious about him. If they were together, if Sherlock gave him the honor, that was it for him. _He_ was it for him. That meant telling Cynthia wasn’t a maybe.

It was a certainty. A coming reality.

He’d seen it. Kids disowned, sons made homeless, daughters screwed out of an inheritance from grandparents because their mum or dad insisted that they “wouldn’t want you to have it now, knowing what you are!” And you know what the fucking kicker is? They think they’re being _merciful_ because they’ll “come back to God” if their parents treat them like shit. 

God, he was going to be sick. 

“Get the bin!” 

Tyler thrust the bin under John’s face just in time. He heaved until he didn’t have anything left, but he wouldn’t stop choking. 

“There. You’re okay, you’re okay.” Greg sat beside him and rubbed circles on his chest. “It happens. No one’s judging you, and it won’t leave this room.”

Greg shot a threatening look at everyone in the dorm, but there was no need. John’s friends would die first. 

“What happened?” Greg asked, and Tyler and Mike explained. When they finished, Greg nodded. He didn’t say anything for a long time, then finally he looked at John. 

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you aren’t alone. We’ll _help_ you. What can we do?”

John scoffed. No one in his family ever once asked him what they could do. He almost didn’t know what to do with the offer, so he flat out refused.

There wasn’t anything anyone could do anyway. It was too late. 

“That’s not true.”

Greg paused like he was trying to decide whether or not to speak.

“When I first came out,” he began slowly, “I thought I could undo fourteen years' worth of brainwashing in a day. I couldn’t, and you can’t either, but you don’t have to.”

John picked his head out of the bin. 

Lestrade… Lestrade was gay? How didn’t he know this? It didn’t seem to be news to anyone else.

Greg fiddled with his thumbs.

“You’re surprised, yeah? A lot of people are. That’s part of the brainwashing, that we aren’t normal people. Or did you think Harry was an exception?” 

Greg laced his hands around the back of his neck. 

This, saying it out loud, it was hard for him, John realized. 

Didn’t it ever get any easier?

“We’re as normal as anybody can be, but for sixteen years you’ve lived in a world where people use our names as synonyms for damned. What’d your mum tell you? That you’d go to hell if you felt this way? That you couldn’t hold on to your beliefs and hold on to your heart too? Your sister wouldn’t still be closeted otherwise, and I know you sure as hell never would've treated Sherlock like that if you weren’t afraid. It’s okay to be terrified, John. Fear is a reaction,” he gripped John’s shoulder, “but courage is a choice.”

Courage. What had John said? That he’d make Dad proud by being a Watson, by being brave, by telling Sherlock the truth?

Because that went real well. 

“I’m a coward,” John finally said. “And she’s not even here.”

“Who?”

“My _mum._ ” John’s face twisted. “There wasn’t even a threat and I _hurt_ him. I hurt him for no reason.”

“John,” Betty knelt beside the bed, “If you had it to do over again, would you do it the same?”

“No!”

“Then you learned,” she said, “and you can fix this. Greg’s right. You can’t expect to change everything you were raised to believe in a single day, and Sherlock can’t expect you to either.”

She picked up a notepad and pencil.

“So here’s what we’re gonna do: you’re going to calm down enough to write, you’re going to jolt down one of those lists you’re always making, and we’re going to stay and help you.”

Greg, Ryan, Tyler, and Mike nodded.

“So,” she said, handing him the notepad, “what’s first?”

John took the pad. It was barely legible, but the longer he wrote, the better he felt, until finally he scratched out—

OPERATION: APOLOGIZE TO ~~SHERLOCK HOLMES~~

~~MY BEST FRIEND~~

My love.

And he slowly assembled a plan. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” asked Molly. “She’s only been in the hospital a day.”

“Thirty-seven hours,” said Sherlock. “More like a day and a half.”

Molly still didn’t like it. “But we aren’t _family_. They won’t let us in if we aren’t family.”

“So we’ll say we are.”

“That won’t work!” said Molly. “They only let in the immediate family.”

“We’re siblings. We were unavoidably detained.”

“Siblings? But we’re white.”

“We’re adopted. Don’t be ignorant, Molly. There’s more than one way to have a nuclear family.”

There was no arguing with Sherlock Holmes. She really dodged a bullet by becoming his friend and not his girlfriend. 

“Does John ever talk you out of it or does he follow you blindly on your harebrained schemes?”

Sherlock sauntered up to the nurse’s desk and popped his coat collar. He disheveled his hair and tried to look appropriately worried.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock hissed under his breath, “normally only says encouraging, positive things.”

 _When he’s not being a dick,_ he thought.

Molly huffed. 

Fine, she would go along, but she wouldn’t say “Amazing!” or “Brilliant!” or “Genius!” He should have let her finish her coffee this morning if he wanted her to do that. And he shouldn’t have gone on about it being coffee instead of tea like she was _supposed_ to drink.

Or rather, tea like John _used_ to drink.

“This isn’t going to work.”

“Trust me.”

A bored-looking nurse walked out from the office behind the desk. 

Sherlock couldn’t blame her. If he worked here, he’d be bored too.

“Can I help you?” she asked, looking over the rim of her classes. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “We’re here to see our—”

“Friend from school!” cut Molly.

Sherlock whipped around and gave her the stank eye.

_“What do you think you’re doing?”_

_“Keeping us out of trouble!”_

Sherlock turned back to the aged nurse smiling.

He was so creepy looking whenever he angry-faked it. 

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said, sitting down at her computer. “Only family is allowed. Hospital rules.”

“Of course, right,” said Sherlock.

His smile fell the moment he turned around. He gripped Molly by the shoulder and stomped to the waiting room. 

“What the hell was that?” he squeaked. How demoralizing. “You can’t just hijack a case! Now we’ll never solve it!”

“We’ll talk to her later.”

“The trail will grow cold!”

“We don’t even know if Agatha is awake.”

“WELL, WE BLOODY WON’T—” Sherlock composed himself. It wouldn’t do, yelling at a lady.

God, he missed John. So many perks in that tiny, dumbassed man.

“Well,” he coughed. “We won’t find out now, will we?” His voice cracked and his left eyebrow twitched. Breaking in a new assistant was proving mighty taxing.

“Sherlock,” said Molly, “what can she tell us that she hasn’t already told the police?”

The police!

“John Watson might have his head shoved up his ass, but even he understands that the police are useless!”

“Quit comparing me to John!”

“John?” A middle-aged man rounded the corner from the vending machine. “Are you John Watson?”

Sherlock analyzed him.

Dark skinned, one dimple on the left side, white-collar worker, married, three, no, four daughters. Wealthy. Hindu wife. Obviously been here all night, going off less than three hours sleep. Suffering a cold. Similar jawline to Agatha, a phone sticking out of his front pocket with a family picture. Probably should have deduced that first. Allergic to dogs and cats. One office goldfish. 

“Me? John Watson?” asked Sherlock, and then sticking out his hand, “Yes, sir! A friend of Agatha’s. How is she? Molly and I have come for a visit.”

Molly slapped her fist to her forehead.

Mr. Bell took Sherlock’s hand but pulled him in for a hug.

“We can’t thank you enough! You saved our girl! God, why would anyone do such a thing? We don’t know anything yet. I’m taking my daughter out of that school!”

“It was nothing,” croaked Sherlock. Mr. Bell had quite the grip.

The man released him. 

“Mr. Bell,” Molly elbowed in, “would it be alright if we spoke to Agatha?”

“Absolutely,” sniffed Mr. Bell, wiping snot on the top of his hand. “Aggie’s awake now. Happy to be alive, of course, but a bit embarrassed about, you know, being found naked.”

“Not to worry,” said Sherlock. “Joh— _I_ insisted someone find a towel.”

Mr. Bell led them to the farthest room down the hall. Molly entered first, seeing as she actually knew the girl, but when Sherlock entered, she covered herself with the blanket and said, “Who are you?” She looked at him wildly. “Wait, I know you. You’re —”

“John Watson,” he finished. “Lovely to meet you. Good to see you’re awake.”

She looked him over, then looked at Molly. 

“But he’s not—”

“As tall as you expected?” cut Sherlock. “You’ll have to forgive me. I take the precaution of a long coat and…”

His adam's apple bobbed. 

No, no. Keep your mind occupied and your body moving, and avoid falling into a pit of despondency. Yes. 

“...and a short friend. _Sherlock,_ that small little fellow I normally hang out with, couldn’t make it. Molly’s taller and shatters the illusion.”

He smiled.

Agatha jerked in alarm. “What’s wrong with his face?”

“It’s alright, Agatha,” Molly soothed, and she glared at Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned in close. _“Get rid of the father,”_ he hissed.

_“How do I do that?”_

_“I don’t know! Think on your feet. Do what John does.”_

Molly had to take a breath. _“And what does_ John _normally do?”_

_“Fakes an injury, usually his leg.”_

“DAMN MY LEG!” Molly screamed, causing both Sherlock and Agatha to jump.

Molly recovered the situation. “I mean, oh my leg! Oh!” She toppled off of the bed dramatically. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bell, but I have an injury from field hockey. It hurts so bad! Can you help me find a wheelchair and take me to the nurse? I think it’s serious. I need a doctor!”

Hell, she was worse than John.

“Oh, you poor thing!” Mr. Bell scrambled to her aid and looped Molly’s arm over his shoulder. 

“We ought to sue that school, Watson,” he said looking up at Sherlock. “If this is the care they show their athletes, I’d hate to see how they handle education!” 

As soon as Mr. Bell and the crippled Molly were out of the room, Sherlock rounded on Agatha. 

“Alright, let’s not mince words. Who stabbed you?”

“What?”

Sherlock breathed. If someone said _one more word_ to remind him of John he’d lose it!

“Who stabbed you, woman? Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

Agatha tugged the covers up higher. “You’re that Holmes bloke, aren’t you? The detective?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s the little one?”

_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph._

And he felt all the angrier once he realized he’d cursed with one of _John’s_ phrases.

Dammit. 

“Who. Stabbed. You.”

Agatha looked bewildered. “No one stabbed me. I already told the police. I just took off my… my…”

“Clothes?” offered Sherlock.

My God, it’s like pulling teeth!

“My clothes,” she blushed, “and my compression belt. I’ve got a back injury, and I wear something similar already for weightlifting, but this ones tighter. With that and the numbing cream I got from therapy, sometimes I don’t feel anything at all. But no one was close enough to stab me, and surely I would have felt _that!_ I don’t think I even have any enemies. Why would someone want to kill me?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock thought for a moment.“Have you ever seen this?” 

He took the matchbox camera out of his pocket. 

“A box of matches?” she asked. “Of course I have.”

“I mean on your team,” Sherlock huffed. “Does anyone smoke?”

“In athletics? You’re joking.” 

But then Agatha thought. “Wait… Wait, there is someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know her. I asked about her once, but no one recognized her. I mean, I never saw her smoke, but she had out a box of matches like that all the time. I figured she must smoke or was a pyromaniac.”

Sherlock perked.

An attempted murderer! Lord, it was almost enough to make up for the shit two days!

“This woman, what did she look like? Could you describe her?”

Agatha chewed on her lip for a painfully long time.

“She was tall, sort of skinny. She didn’t really have any, you know, breasts. And she had a weird hairstyle, kind of edgy. Blonde.”

Sherlock felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. 

“Weird how?

“Well,” said Agatha, “it was shaved on one side. 

Motherfucking Christmas. 

______________________________________________________________________________

John grumbled into his mobile feeling like an absolute wanker. He was halfway across campus on his way back from the village. Sunday was the last day students were allowed to leave Conan for the rest of the week, besides Halloween when everything would be packed, and he felt like he’d _wasted_ the opportunity for a real apology gift, but his judgement was off, so he shelved his idea and took Mike and Tyler’s advice. 

A terrible decision, really.

“Mike, this isn’t going to work.”

“But you haven’t even tired yet!”

“It’s flowers, Mike.”

“Everyone likes flowers.”

“But it’s Sherlock fucking Holmes!”

John glared at the bouquet in his hands, woefully inadequate for such a slight and it didn’t contain so much as one poisonous flower, not even a weed!

What kind of man goes groveling to his intended with a perfectly harmless bouquet?

Pathetic. The woman at the flower shop hadn’t even tried. 

So annoyed was John that he didn’t notice a bicyclist on a mobile. The girls rammed into them and sent them both flying, and the vase shattered against John’s hand.

John cursed and jerked the large glass shard out of his palm. 

Great. Now he had nothing. 

“John! Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!”

John rolled out of the gravel onto his back. Someone was leaning over him, limping. 

“Mary?” he asked. 

Not her. Not now. John knew it wasn’t her fault. Mary had nothing to do with his fuckups. Still, if only Sherlock hadn’t kept talking about her like she was the other woman or something, maybe he would've spit it out sooner. Then he wouldn’t have been able to get cold feet and ruin everything. 

“Are you alright? Are you concussed?” she asked. 

“No, no,” John scrambled to his feet. “I’m fine.”

Mary inspected the ground, littered with the flowers and shards of shattered blue vase. Then she looked at John’s hand, blood practically pouring.

“Your hand! Oh, John, I’m so sorry!”

She reached for him, but he flinched back. He knew it was childish, but what if Sherlock saw? He wouldn’t like it.

Or at least, John hoped he wouldn’t like it, assuming he still cared. 

“Stop apologizing. It’s fine.”

“No it isn’t,” said Mary, her mouth fixed in a firm line. She knelt over and picked his flowers out of the glass. 

“What are you doing?”

Mary gripped the frazzled bouquet in her fist and took John by the elbow. 

“Come on. Aiken House is right here. You can come up and I’ll play your nurse.”

John bristled. “No, thanks. I have a first aid kit in my own dormitory.”

Mary insisted. “You need a new vase, though, don’t you? At least let me replace that. I have one in my room. All it’s doing is holding makeup brushes, and I can switch those into a can.”

She studied the bouquet. 

“Lovely flowers,” she said. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Guy, actually.”

They both paused for a beat, but Mary was back faster than John, dragging him up the stairwell. 

Had he… just come out to Mary Mortsan? And it didn’t feel terrifying or weird. It felt _good._

If he somehow made it through this living Hell, John swore everywhere he went he’d introduce Sherlock as his boyfriend. 

_Hello, have you met my boyfriend? Yes, he has exquisite cheekbones._

He smiled like a sodding fool just thinking about it. He couldn’t wait to see Sherlock again. 

However, he could have waited just a _smidge_ longer based on what happened next. 

________________________________________________________________________________

“Okay, so here’s what we know,” said Sherlock, whacking the whiteboard in Molly’s room with a yardstick. “We have an attempted murderer no one’s ever seen, but apparently coincides with a stalker only you, me, and,” he had to work himself up to it, “ _Mary_ have ever seen.”

He threw back a lukewarm cup of tea to dampen the taste of her name.

Sherlock spritzed it through his teeth. “Bleh! God, this is vile! What is it?”

“Chamomile,” said Molly.

Sherlock face-shrugged but didn’t say anything. 

_John_ preferred oolong, but Molly twisted his ear in the car and threatened if he said one more word about John Watson in her presence she’d use _him_ as a specimen, starting with his tongue and his vocal chords. 

He almost missed browbeaten Molly. His earlobe certainly did. It would never hang the same.

“Alright,” he went back to it. “First of all, — Take note, Molly — the universe is rarely so lazy when it comes to coincidences. So, based on that, what can we assume?”

“Um… That the attempted murderer and the stalker are… related?”

“Very good, Molly!” 

He tossed her a biscuit. 

“We’ll make an assistant out of you yet.”

He went back to the board, assuming his praying pose. 

“Think. We’ve got a discarded makeup bag, a specifically styled, blonde wig, and, found in the same trash, a Soviet-era matchbox camera with used film. I sent it off to Mycroft—”

“Your brother?” said Molly.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at her. How come John never figured that out? Sure, Molly was insubordinate, weak-willed in some areas, and had terrible taste in low-quality brand tea, but perhaps she could be an appropriate replacement after all. Without any attraction to distract him, why, this might work better than —

The door clicked. 

Sherlock quickly surveyed the room, something he’d neglected to do before either because of his hurt or because of the case. It was obvious, he deduced in 0.5 seconds, Molly had a roommate. She must’ve sent her away when Sherlock spent the night. Cat lover. Compulsive liar. They got on, but not well. Common ground in field hockey. Blonde —

Oh, shit. 

But it wasn’t the biggest shit he could give, because not only did Mary Morstan walk through the door, she walked in holding a bouquet of flowers and _John’s hand._

It felt like time stopped. He couldn’t deduce anything.

Probably because he didn’t want to. 

He felt like his heart was hanging itself with his own arteries. Everything felt knotted up inside, and sick, and dangerously sharp and shattered like he couldn’t move without cutting himself, but he couldn’t stay still either.

There’s no winning in heartbreak. 

John was smiling about something she said, something someone of John’s intellect probably imagined to be _clever._

_I was clever for you. I’m the third-cleverest man alive. Why isn’t that enough for you?_

Oh, right. Because he’s a man.

How fucking insulting! He’d been furious with John before, but on some level he forgave him, understood. But this? He couldn’t sodding stomach this bullshit. Mary Morstan right in front of him? He hadn’t even waited! He wasn’t even attracted to her! He hadn’t even apologized or tried to find Sherlock!

This he would _not_ forgive. 

They were through as roommates. They were through as associates. They were through as _best friends._

The blood ran out of John’s face the moment he laid eyes on him. 

“Sherlock!” John said. He sounded shy, almost excited.

_I suppose he would be excited for whatever he had planned in Mary’s company. In Mary’s room!_

Then when John saw the look of pure fury branding itself across Sherlock’s face his eyes slanted down and realized what it looked like. Flowers. Hand holding. 

Even John could figure it.

“Oh, bugger. _It isn’t what it looks like, Sherlock!”_

What a cliche line! Psst. What did he see in John anyway?

_Everything._

Shut up, brain.

_Oh, Sherlock. You should never let your heart rule your mind._

Not-Real Mycroft? What was he doing here? Sherlock wasn’t even high.

It didn’t matter, because he was _done._

“Sherlock, wait! Look at me!”

Sherlock easily outpaced him. 

Stubby-legged, traitorous, insensitive…

“Look at my hand! It’s bleeding. She was patching it up.”

“You could do that yourself!”

“The flowers were for you! She broke my vase and was giving me a new one!”

“Oh, come off it, John! That’s a bigger lie than the one you told me last night! There wasn’t a single poisonous flower in that bouquet. You’d never buy me something like that!”

“Goddammit, man! They don’t _sell_ flowers like that to the public, you should know!”

Sherlock couldn’t listen to one more word. He ran to Baker Hall, and John hadn’t a hope of catching him.

The man could flat move when he really wanted to.

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK!”

John had to give it up. He held himself on his knees, panting. 

Well, things were now officially not good.

He pulled out his mobile. “Hey, guys?” he said breathily. “We’ve got a problem.”

________________________________________________________________________________

The bean bag was fast becoming John Watson’s chair of shame. He didn’t even know what to say to the boys this time.

Greg just sat there smacking his lips every couple seconds looking disappointed.

“Welp,” he finally smacked. “What have we learned here today?”

Brett raised his hand. “John’s a dumbass?”

“Exactly!” Greg slapped his hands together and pointed finger guns.

“Really, mate,” said Stephen, “I can’t believe you let Mary play you like that.”

“I told her they were for a guy!”

“But you went up anyway,” said Eddy, shaking his head with disbelief. “I’ve never seen a bloke who’s this bad with both men _and_ women.”

“Poor sod.”

“Sherlock deserves better.”

The room nodded in a unanimous consensus. 

“ALRIGHT!” John leapt to his feet. “I didn’t wanna do this before, but now we’ve _nothing_ left to lose! We tried it your way with flowers and nonsense, but now it’s time for my plan!”

“John, you can’t be serious,” said Mike. “You’ll never pull it off, especially with your hand like that.”

“Oh, yes I can!” John snapped. “Tyler, go to my room and fetch my guitar.”

“Don’t have to. Sherlock’s thrown it down the hall. That and everything else you own, from the looks of things.”

Great. Perfect.

“ _Fine!”_ he spat. “Go get it! We’re doing this my way or not at all. I know I’m a dumbass, but there’s one thing I know, and that’s Sherlock Holmes. No ordinary apology will do. If I can’t pull this off our friendship is dead in the water.”

“Plus you’ll never get laid,” said Eddy. 

John ignored him. 

Too distracting a concept at so pivotal a moment.

John paced. He stopped before the window with his hands at his back. 

“I can’t lose Sherlock. He’s more than the best friend I ever had. It’s worth the risk.”

“John,” said Stephen, “you don’t mean…”

“But I do,” said John. “We’re bringing out the big guns.”

Greg looked horror-struck, going pallid from his spot on the top bunk.

“No. No, no, no! Mate, I’m begging you, _please.”_

“And I’m begging you!” John turned from the window and stared Greg dead in the eyes. “It’s time for Operation: Gemini.”

John would get Sherlock back. He'd get Sherlock back or die trying, and he didn't care much either way.


	17. Come in, Hedgehog. Do you copy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Apologies to Viola Players and the French
> 
> (Warning: this is my least favorite chapter. My OCs are out of line, but the good chapter is next. It's already written.)
> 
> John and Lestrade must go on a date to a silent disco with the Hardgrave twins; Brett and Eddy put aside their prejudices to get the orchestra in line; Mycroft struggles with jealousy, and later must contend with Sherlock when he starts using again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author would like to apologize for this chapter from the bottom of her heart. It was a necessary evil to keep our boys apart for so long.   
> I also want to apologize for my OCs running rampant through the streets. I promise, after this, they will be under control and you will see less of them. I'm hoping Sherlock will be more in character too.

“Dorian, I’m coming to you on my knees.”

“It does not look like it.”

John immediately dropped. 

“Dorian,” he repeated, knees cracking against the hard marble, “I’m coming to you on my knees.”

“ _ Merde, _ he is desperate.” Eliza Hardgrave stood unmoved, but her mouth twitched in amusement. She stood at the end of the conservatory hall with her violin case propped on her hip. Dorian, his guitar cased and strapped to his back, stood in a similar, disinterested posture with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. When she first met John Watson, he was too arrogant to even accept Dorian’s guitar. Now he was begging for her twin's help, and she knew Dorian would never give in, not with what  _ John  _ wanted. 

“Why should I do anything to help Sherlock Holmes?” he drawled in an accent that sounded more Russian than French from a man with an English surname. “He is a, how you say…?”

“Asshole,” finished Eliza.

Dorian nodded. 

“Listen,” said John, “I know I don’t have a lot to offer you, but I need your help. If you teach me classical guitar, I might have a shot.”

“I will not! I will not teach you on that —” 

He wrestled with the English language and lost. __

_ “ _ — _ monstruosité grognante!” _

“It has to be an electric guitar.”

John saw he was losing ground. He didn’t want to have to do this, but Dorian left him no alternative.

“Greg!” 

Dorian perked up. Everyone at Conan knew of Dorian Hardgraves’ French fixation on Greg Lestrade. He was older, handsome, the salt and pepper haired darling of the thirteens, captain of the rugby team, and the only person in Dorian’s estimation beside Eliza and himself who could speak the proud Normand language without butchering every syllable. That is, except Sherlock, who spoke it perfectly, but Dorian didn’t consider Holmes a person.

Greg remained hidden behind a column. 

John sighed. “Mike?” he buzzed into this walkie talkie. “Fetch Greg for me, please.”

Greg flew from behind the pillar as though thrown. He quickly righted himself and walked forward, clearing his throat.

“Hello,” he said.

Dorian smiled like a Cheshire cat.

“Greg, this is Dorian. Dorian, this is my —”

“I know who you are,” Dorian cut, sweeping John aside. He leaned down to where his white-blond hair hung a thick curtain from his face to Lestrade’s.

Greg gulped. 

He turned and coughed. “John,” his voice cracked on a high note. “John, can I talk to you?”

John excused himself and took Greg aside. 

“What is it now, Gregory?”

“Listen, man,” Greg whipped his head to the Hardgraves and back. “I thought I was okay with you pimping me out, but I’m not. I don’t think I can do this. There’s someone else. I’m not that kind of Frenchman!”

Greg was in a white-hot panic. Something about Dorian’s glassy eyes unnerved him and he felt like a  _ putain. _ What would his mother say?

“I’m not asking you to marry the guy, Greg. I’m not even asking you to sleep with him.”

_ “He undressed me with his eyes!” _

“If he does more than that, let me know. I’ll break his strumming arm.”

“John!”

“Listen,” John pressed his knuckles to his lips, thinking. “If you don’t want to do this, it’s fine, but I mean it: I will give you anything you want, help you with any obstacle, any bloke. You already have first dibs on all of my internal organs, including the ones without backups. I’m willing to sell you my  _ soul,  _ Greg. Please. None of this works without you.”

Greg pursed his lips. 

“Fine!” he spat. “But don’t think I’m not collecting!”

John pushed Greg’s finger out of his face. It was practically up his nose.

“Look pleasant.”

Greg sauntered up to Dorian with the pained expression of a castrated dog. 

“Listen,” John took Greg by the coat collar so he couldn’t escape. “I know you like Lestrade. He’s…” He couldn’t believe he was saying this. “...a silver fox, and he speaks decent French.”

“He is French,” said Dorian, pushing John’s hand off of Lestrade, but otherwise staying out of Greg’s personal space. 

That’s good. Good. 

“I’d like to find out how French.”

Well, fuck.

“I’m not prostituting him,” said John, angling himself between the two boys, “but you’ve been trying to get him to go out with you for two—”

“Four,” supplied Greg.

“— _ four _ years. Wouldn’t you like an opportunity to go out on a proper, gentlemanly date with him? Tomorrow night? The Diogenes Club?”

The Diogenes Club, located in artistic, downtown Swindon, was the city's only silent disco, founded after one too many noise complaints by a number of conservative residents. It was twenty minutes from Avebury and about as far as John figured Lestrade could go in a cramped Uber with Dorian. 

“It’ll be a Halloween to remember,” tempted John.

Dorian thought about it while Lestrade sweated. Surely he could see Greg wasn’t interested! What about Myc? What would he say? What would Greg tell him? If he didn’t play his cards right he’d end up in the same hot seat as John. 

“I will accept Lestrade’s,” Dorian swaggered close,  _ “ _ invitation. _ ” _

Greg prayed there were no security cameras pointed his way. 

“However, this is not all I want.  Grégoire plays hard to get. I would prefer an additional reason to help should the date not go well.” Dorian smirked at John’s Martin. “ _ That _ ,” he said, “will do.”

Dorian had him by the balls and he knew it. John would never give up his guitar.

“Done,” said John. “Lestrade will pick you up at nine.”

Both Dorian and Greg looked at John like he’d gone mad.

Greg nearly ripped John’s arm out of its socket. He pulled him back across the room and hissed,  _ “John, what are you doing? Your dad bought you that guitar.” _

_ “This is more important,” _ whispered John.

Greg wouldn’t hear of it. “Why do you want John’s guitar?” he asked Dorian. “You’re not going to play it.”

Dorian shrugged. “For what your friend is asking, it will take many long hours and much composition. The guitar will not cover my usual fee, but it can be sold for pocket change.”

If Greg weren’t so mad at John, he would’ve been outraged. The Martin meant the world to John. Why couldn’t Sherlock Holmes see that he meant more and give the man a break? But they needed Dorian, and more importantly, they needed Eliza, the concertmaster. If they could win Dorian, they could win her, and if they could win Eliza, then all Brett and Eddy had to do was win over the conductor the department considered the maestro, Spencer McFadden. Where McFadden went, the orchestra would follow.

Greg sighed. “Are we… dressing up for the occasion? Since it’s Halloween?”

Dorian guffawed. “I will go as Vanya Hardgreeves. You will go as Number Five.”

Greg leaned to John’s ear.  _ “What the hell is he talking about? He wants me to dress as a number?” _

John shook his head and shrugged, looking bewildered. 

“You,” Dorian frowned at John, looking him up and down, “will go as Napoleon. My sister wants to be Josephine.”

John blinked. 

Greg looked ecstatic.

John pointed at himself. “Me? You want me to go?”

“Of course,” said Eliza, flipping her silver hair. “I cannot be a third wheel. You will come as well or Dorian will not go.”

He’d sacrificed his Martin. He might as well sacrifice his dignity.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ve got a deal.”

All they had to do now was show the Hardgraves a good time. How hard could it be? John only prayed Brett and Eddy were holding up their end and playing nice with the violas.

________________________________________________________________________________

“Hey, Saxon, do you know the only thing a violinist does better than a violist?” shouted Eddy. 

Brett finished it off. “PLAY THE VIOLA!” 

The entire concert hall was in an uproar, sheet music in a constant downpour. Many in the orchestra would have left by now if it weren’t for the foresight of one Stephen Goalla, who deadbolted all the exits before setting off on his own mission to hack into the instructor email accounts.

Brett and Eddy were many things. At their best, they were venerable musical geniuses lacking completely in common sense, and at their worst, a pair of blithering quipsters, unable to resist their true and greatest passion:

Mocking the viola. 

“Hey, Saxon, what’s the difference between a vacuum and a viola?”

“A vacuum has to be plugged in to suck!”

John didn’t really  _ need _ the violas anyway. 

After all, who did?

Earlier that morning they divided and conquered within departments. So far, they had the brass on board with the promise of open invitations to parties. The woodwinds only wanted free food. But the percussion and the string instruments? They refused to listen to reason, so Stephen baited them with an email from Dr. Polizzi to meet in the concert hall.

It would be their doom. 

The walls reverberated with protests. The hall was designed for acoustics, built to heighten sound, and so no one could hear a thing. Eddy saw that he might have taken things just a  _ bit  _ too far. He’d gotten cocky, he supposed, and so he kindly borrowed a pair of cymbals and clashed them together until the room was under control.

“Who do you think you are, locking us in here?” demanded the second cello. The first cello, Betty, wouldn’t look them in the eye.

The kettle drums expressed a similar sentiment, along with the harps and snare drums. Even their fellow violinists turned against them. Of course, that wasn’t so much because of Brett and Eddy as it was —

“Why the hell should we help Sherlock Holmes? We hate him!”

That. 

“It isn’t  _ for _ Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock doesn’t know about it!” explained Brett. “It’s for  _ John.” _

“Who the hell is John?” asked the first harp.

“I’ll tell you who the hell John Watson is!” snapped Eddy, leaping atop a rickety podium and pointing a finger at the string instruments. “Have you seen Sherlock hanging around here this term?”

The orchestra murmured and shook their heads.

“Have you noticed a dramatic decrease in insults from Sherlock Holmes about our bow techniques when you have to stomach him in the hallways?”

Again, the orchestra murmured, this time nodding. 

“And you have one man to thank for it!” said Eddy, flourishing a climactic pose before falling off the stage. He crawled up and croaked, “John Watson!”

“Yeah,” said Brett, “and if you don’t help us Sherlock’s gonna be back and worse than ever.”

There was a cry of alarm before a bold bassist stood up and declared, “We’ve dealt with Sherlock Holmes before and we can do it again! You can’t blackmail us.”

That turned the tide. Brett and Eddy were losing them.

“Come up with something! That arsehole Davis shot us in the foot. We almost had them!”

“Me? What do you want me to come up with? It’s your turn,” said Eddy, crawling on the stage and holding his ribs. 

Brett was at the end of his rope and screamed “WE’VE GOT £500 RIDING ON THIS AND WE BETTER NOT LOSE!”

The concert hall fell silent. Brett turned to see everybody staring at him.

“Eh,” he smiled shyly, “Sorry about that.”

But then, like a lamb in the thicket, the most respected man in the orchestra, the maestro himself, Spencer McFadden, appeared from amongst the throng and asked, “What do you mean ‘£500?’”

Now if Sherlock was there, he could’ve looked at McFadden and deduced he was a compulsive gambler destined to drive his family to ruin right away, but Brett and Eddy didn’t know that. 

“Yes, you see, our friend, Ryan Gellert, one of our flankers…” Brett looked helplessly at Eddy. “He’s got this bet going on whether or not Sherlock and John get together. We’re betting for, and it’s a bit weighted at the moment because John acted like a dumbass and now Sherlock isn’t speaking to him.”

“Lucky man,” someone muttered, causing the hall to laugh. 

“Quiet!” McFadden silenced them. “I’m listening,” he said to Brett. 

Brett didn’t know what to make of it. “A lot of people are saying it’ll never happen. I mean, it is Sherlock.”

“But it’s also John!” said Eddy, back at peak theatrical form. “Gather round and I’ll tell you of a slow-burn romance that’ll make you  _ weep _ ! You’ll be begging to get in on the pool when it’s over. We, ladies and gentlemen, are the only thing standing between two men and a love story for the ages. We are the last line of defense for that most pinnacle of suffers victimized by a heteronormative society!” 

Eddy started from the beginning, keeping most of the concert hall on the edge of their seats, but McFadden didn’t perk up until Eddy told him, “So far it’s our £500 against everyone else’s £2,000.”

“Did you say £2,000?”

“Well, yeah,” answered Brett. “Even Lestrade bet against him. The only reason I’m roped into it is because Eddy’s a fangirl.”

McFadden paused, doing the mental math. What if this became a schoolwide thing? He could make a quick buck, pay off some debts before his Mum found out… 

“Can I get in on that bet?” asked the xylophone.

“And me?” said a viola.

“Me too!”

It went on that way till Brett scrambled to add everyone to a group chat. It was turning out to be a pretty even split, with half the musicians saying Sherlock’s recent behavior alone was enough to prove he’d go for John, and with the other half arguing a man of Holmes’ resolve would never falter. John Watson was as dead to him as one of those cadavers he was always chopping up. 

Finally, McFadden marched to the front of the room and threw down  _ £5,000 cash. _

“Jesus!” said Brett, his eyes growing wide. “You just carry that kind of money around with you?”

But McFadden didn’t comment. He only sneered for a moment, drew his mouth into a tight line, and said, “John Watson will win and so will I because we’re going to make him win. This is the finest orchestra in all of Southern England. Get us the sheet music,” he nodded stiffly. “We’ll help your man.”

Brett couldn’t believe his ears. 

They did it. They actually did it.

My God, they might win the bet yet!

While Eddy commed Stephen to come unlock the concert hall, Brett commed John. 

“Hedgehog, come in Hedgehog. Do you read me? Over.”

Eddy said John had the nose and hair color consistent with the small beast, and Brett could see the resemblance.

The walkie-talkie buzzed. “Bravo team? Is that you? I told you my handle was Alpha Leader! Over.”

John buzzed out.

Brett rolled his eyes. “Come off it, mate. If you were an alpha in any sense we wouldn’t be groveling on a level this far down in hell. You’re whipped and the whole school’s about to know it. Over.”

“What are you talking about? Over.”

“Hedgehog, you’re never gonna believe this,” said Brett. “We got them. All of them.”

________________________________________________________________________________

Logic and, in his desperation, WebMD confirmed Sherlock was mourning John Watson. 

It began when he went to the library — a boring thing ordinary people do — and bought weed off of  Feuerstein, a library worker renowned for his skill in ingesting and distributing marijuana, the latter done by way of DVD cases. He told himself he only wanted a small high, but that didn’t stop him from asking after specific movies.  Casino Royale. Black Panther. Avengers: Infinity War. Mission: Impossible. All terrible action flicks John loved. 

So what? Molly told him people were supposed to binge movies and eat ice cream after a breakup.

“It’s not a breakup!” he’d told her, but there he was shoveling spoonful after spoonful of Neapolitan ice cream into his mouth.

Sherlock swore he wouldn’t do hard drugs; not because  _ John _ wouldn’t like it, but because he wasn’t about to indulge a cocaine-fueled sulk just because  _ Watson  _ broke his heart.

He didn’t have a heart anyway. 

So why did he feel like part of him was gone? Like it’d been ripped out of his chest? You’re not supposed to miss something you never had. John ruined him. He’d turned a machine into a human, made him weak, and then left him to fend for himself with no idea how.

“John’s the one without a heart,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “Not me.”

Sherlock sat curled on John’s bed watching Bond films. So what if they were John’s favorite? They weren’t even that good. He’d be sure to insult the plot holes if ever John deigned to speak to him again. John bombarded him with texts and calls that first night and after the Mary incident, but he suddenly stopped. Not that Sherlock was disappointed, it just seemed out of character for so persistent a man as Watson. And he wasn’t eating because John would want him to snack. That’s just what people did when they watched movies. Molly said so! 

He made it halfway through Spectre before he cursed Daniel Craig and took up his violin at the window, but when he looked down at the lawn, he saw John dressed in an ill-fitted waistcoat, breeches, and a powdered wig like Napoleon Bonaparte. He offered his elbow to a girl in a regency ball gown that cut at her knees. She wasn’t Mary. 

What was John doing? Playing the field now? Would it kill him to have his paramours in private, for God’s sake? It was bad enough Sherlock didn’t want to go out on Halloween, his favorite holiday, but now John was rubbing it in his face.

Sherlock wanted to curse, but he couldn’t think of anything violent or vulgar enough to say. His brain wasn’t working. His body was only transport for his brain! Now that that was gone, what was he?

He threw his violin to the floor, but it didn’t break. 

Merely knocked it out of tune.

Maybe that was it! John Watson cycloned into his life and knocked him out of tune. All he needed was to right himself. He needed to clear his head, think, retreat deep into his mind palace. Maybe then everything would be alright. 

Sherlock reached into the cranny under the armoire and took out the envelope. There was still just enough. He flicked on his bunsen burner and diluted the solution to his regular dosage, careful to also sterilize his needle. He promised himself he wouldn’t shoot up just because of John, but he didn’t know what else to do and he  _ needed _ it. He remembered the feeling, the feeling like something was just within his grasp before he had to come down and wake up to the dull, meaningless world. It’d been too long. If only he could catch it once maybe this awful feeling would go away, this slicing heartbreak, this clawing boredom that haunted him all his life. Just once, just one more time.

But he always said that. High-functioning or not, he was an addict.

And addicts never admit when they don’t know their limits. 

He shot up, he felt the high, and the last thing he remembered was falling down the stairs, chasing someone.

_ “John.” _

________________________________________________________________________________

Operation: Gemini wasn’t looking good. For one, Greg misunderstood Dorian’s instructions and wore a number five rugby jersey he’d borrowed from one of the locks. It hadn’t been washed and still smelled of teenage boy.

Dorian was annoyed at first since he dressed as a woman with a violin wearing a suit and a brown wig, but he quickly brushed it off as “cute” and fawned over Lestrade’s past victories in rugby. Greg puffed like a peacock, feigning modesty before giving play-by-plays of his most fantastic wins. 

John wore Dorian’s original Napoleon costume, which was too tight around the crotch and chest and too long in the sleeves and trousers. They had him in a bloody waistcoat and a powdered wig, and he hoped no police stopped them. Someone might think he was a sodding crackhead the way the itchy wig snowed baby powder across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

The group entered the Diogenes Club. Dorian paid for the lot and handed everyone headphones. So far he’d been a perfect gentleman.

He must’ve really liked Greg. 

Maybe it would work out for them, John thought. Someone should be happy at the end of this, even if it couldn’t be him.

The Diogenes Club was dark, lit only by a glimmering disco ball and a large dancefloor broken up into flashing, glass squares that pulsated and changed colors. The bar was backlit, teeming over with hundreds and liquor bottles in various shapes and types of whiskies, tequilas, and vodkas.

All in all, it was a typical nightclub, except it was quiet. 

Greg and John looked at one another. 

“Is this…?”

“Awkward as shit?” John finished.

The only thing he could hear, besides crazy people shouting at one another because they couldn’t be bothered to remove their headphones, was the tapping of feet and the sound of people singing along. Fabric rustled with every busted move, people cheered when someone did the splits or something impressive, but there was no music. 

“You have to put the headphones on,” reminded Eliza. “This was your idea.”

Yeah, but he only picked it because it sounded like the option with the least amount of talking.

When Dorian and Greg slid on their headphones, Eliza grabbed John by the wrists and pulled him to her chest, threatening, “Your friend better show my brother a good time or I will see to it he does not help you win back your boyfriend.” She hovered her lips just a fraction above his own. Maybe she was trying to seduce him into looking out for Dorian’s best interest. Maybe it was a French thing. All John really knew was that it freaked him out.

He gulped. 

He’d show Dorian a good time himself if it got him away from Eliza. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, scared shirtless. “Greg’s a good guy. He won’t do anything to hurt your brother.”

Eliza didn’t look convinced, but she loosened her grip enough for John to jerk away his wrists.

John put on his headphones and entered the dancefloor to the end tune of  _ December, 1963.  _ Greg shuffled his feet like a pro to the next song, spinning and twisting and bopping out his hips. He dropped to the floor and shot up again before spinning into a point and thrusting his crotch like Michael Jackson. 

Jesus. 

“You can dance?” screamed John, just as bad as everyone else despite it being a silent disco.

“I love dancing!” cried Greg. “I love it!”

From the looks of things, Dorian loved it too. The two of them looked like something out of a weird seventies film.

_ “Do you know how to dance?”  _ he’d asked Sherlock that night under the flickering street lamp when everything had been perfect like fate chose that moment for them.

_ “Don’t laugh. My mum’s had me in ballet class since I was seven.” _

What he wouldn’t give to have Sherlock here. He’d love it.

Soon enough, he prayed.

“Just do what I do!” shouted Greg. 

John followed him through a flurry of disco tunes, popping and crossing on his tiptoes and doing a soulful robot, and mostly just pulling his arms up and down and shimming his hips.

“Try this!” said Greg, and John was feeling confident enough to go for it. 

The boys fell into an uncoordinated breakdance and people jumped out of the way cheering. John knew how to do this! He’d practiced with Harry. Pretty soon the two of them had a battle going on, with Lestrade the stronger competitor. Where Greg did a flip in the air, John dropped and lifted himself on one arm swinging his legs till he was spinning on the floor on his back. Greg one-upped him with a wild handstand and ended up spinning on his head. It knocked his headphones off, but it was bloody brilliant. All John could think of after that was the Floss and a spinning point, and he ended up admitting defeat while the crowd and the Hardgraves applauded.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to do this!” shouted John.

“I didn’t!” shouted Lestrade. “But this mission is turning out surprisingly fun!”

John had to excuse himself. He wasn’t in the kind of shape Greg was in, even with all the running around and fighting he did. He left the dance floor and bought himself a drink. He hid away in the back of the room, but no sooner had he sipped his Guinness than he caught sight of Mycroft Holmes sitting stiff and proper in a backlit booth, and spat it straight out. 

“Jesus!” he ripped off his headphones, the world an awkward silence once more. “Mycroft?”

Had Sherlock sent him to knock him off? 

“Why are you here?” John sat at the table, sloshing his beer onto Mycroft’s sleeve. The man calmly patted it with a napkin. 

“Nice to see you as well, Mr. Watson.”

Mycroft didn’t make eye contact with him, only frowned at the open dancefloor. 

“Did Sherlock send you?” John demanded. 

“Whyever would he do that?” asked Mycroft. “Because the two of you had a lovers spat?”

“How the hell do you know about that? Is he okay? Can you tell him I’m sorry?”

“From what I understand, you have a plan to tell him yourself. Very ambitious of you.”

John posted up on his elbows. “What? Are you spying on us now?” Then a horrified look ghosted across his face. “Wait, does Sherlock know about it?”

Oh, God. If he knew about it and didn’t care, that was bad, but if he knew and set Mycroft to stop it? John survived on the hope he’d win Sherlock back. If that went away, he wouldn’t make it.

“What a disturbing glimpse into that thing you call a brain,” said Mycroft. “To you, everything is about Sherlock Holmes. I’m not here for him,” he jerked his head to the dance floor. “I’m here about Gregory.”

“Gregory? Lestrade? What the hell do you want with him?”

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes, giving away his irritation. 

Odd. John had never seen an emotion other than smug on Mycroft's face even when they stole an old lady’s car.

“What  _ do _ you and my brother talk about?” he asked.

“Lestrade’s your brother?”

“No, you moron! My name is Mycroft Holmes. I’m the British government, not  _ French. _ ”

Mycroft cursed. 

“You think going on all those infernal cases you wouldn’t be so dense. You’re even stupider than Gregory!”

“Greg’s not stupid!”

“Well, he must be to be going out with a — !” Mycroft restrained himself. Finally, he just popped his lips and tilted his head in a sassy motion. “A  _ Frenchman.” _

“But Greg’s from Fra—” John began, but then he saw it wasn’t about nationalities. 

“Waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait.” 

He couldn’t believe it. 

It all clicked into place. It suddenly didn’t matter that Sherlock and Mycroft were brothers. (What the hell? Why hadn’t Sherlock told him! So their hatred really was just a childish sibling rivalry?) 

It didn’t even matter that Greg, a man John trusted with his life, was apparently a spy. (How else would Mycroft know Greg or even how to find them? Genius, really. He couldn’t have picked a better man. Sherlock paid very little attention to Lestrade. Couldn’t even get his name right.) 

What mattered was that Mycroft was plotting Dorian Hardgraves’ murder right in front of him. The hairs on the back of his neck hackled every time Dorian and Greg touched. They started grinding and John saw Mycroft’s grip cracked the table.

Jealousy. A dominant trait in Holmeses. 

“Greg’s spying for you!” he said incredulously. “And you… Do you  _ like him? _ Like romantically? That’s why you’re here?”

John didn’t know whether to laugh or be sick. 

Greg had said there was someone else. 

The universe just loved messing with John.

“Is everyone I know,” he groaned at the ceiling and dragged his hands down his face, “coming out of the closet?”

“We were never in the closet,” said Mycroft. “It’s you who’s had his head shoved in a rack full of jumpers, ugly ones by the looks of it.” Mycroft gave him the side-eye.

“I’m not wearing a jumper!” 

“Not today,” said Mycroft. “This ensemble is a vast improvement over your usual wardrobe.”

Jesus. Stupid Holmeses and their stupid clever one-liners. 

“Listen,” said John. “I know you’re ‘the government’ or whatever and I can’t stop you, but you are way too old for Greg! It’s creepy.”

“It’s only a five-year difference.”

John pulled a Sherlock and went completely offline. 

He blinked. “You mean to tell me  _ a twenty-two year old  _ is running the British government?”

“Twenty-three,” corrected Mycroft. “Gregory started school a year late.”

Well, screw him sideways.

John collapsed into the booth. 

“Break it up,” Mycroft waved towards the dance floor as though it were a task beneath him. “Or I most certainly will.”

He rose with poise, grace, and decorum, still carrying that sodding umbrella and looking the picture of an English gentleman and not like the most powerful man in England crushing on a rugby captain and seething with jealousy.

“And John?” he said, throwing down a wad of cash. “Good luck reasoning with Sherlock. You’ll need it.”

“What’s this?” asked John. “I told you the first time I don’t want your money.”

“He likes fireworks,” said Mycroft as he made for the exit through the flash of strobe lights. “A cut of that is also for Lestrade. Tell him I’m betting for. He’ll know what to do.”

Mycroft disappeared, leaving John even more confused than before.

Fireworks. 

He pulled out his phone and called Molly. 

________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock woke in the hospital. He knew it well enough. 

Saint Barts. Paint chipping in the eastern corner, possible water damage from a pissing patient. Dusty television set from 2002. Monitor with a few of the pixels out on the upper left side. Stinging with the omnipresent smell of antiseptic. Blankets scratchy and overwashed.

It was John’s room. The only difference was Sherlock was in the bed and hooked up to the IV this time. He sighed and lifted his head. He felt like shit. Was this a new section of his mind palace? The place where he and John became friends?

He’d have to delete it as soon as possible. 

He pressed his fingers to his temples and tried to think his way out of it. 

“That won’t work, Sherlock.”

Not-Real Mycroft stood by the door. When had he entered? Sherlock supposed he could have passed through the door like a ghost. It was a mind palace, after all. Normal rules of conduct didn’t apply.

“What are you doing here?” asked Sherlock accusingly. “I can’t still be high.”

He sat up in the bed and ripped out the IVs and the patches sticking to his chest. Christ, this hallucination was so real he felt hairs being ripped out. The monitor wailed at the loss of vitals, and he thought and thought but he couldn’t command the machine to be silent.

“Sherlock, stop it!” Not-Real Mycroft went to fling him on the bed, but Sherlock dodged away. He didn’t trust this hallucination. It was too detailed. 

“No, you stop it!” he said. “Stop showing up where I don’t want you! You got what you wanted! My head’s compromised by my heart. I can’t think straight! I can’t even get out. I’ll be the first man buried alive in his own mind palace!” 

The fluorescent lights hurt his eyes. His head pounded like he was hungover.

“You’re not in your mind palace,” said Not-Real Mycroft. “Not this time.”

So what? Was he in his heart? But the room was empty and John wasn’t anywhere to be found, not a trace of him. His laptop wasn’t on the bedside table stacked with DVDs, water bottles didn’t litter the floor from where they tried a challenge John liked on youtube, and his favorite jumper was missing. John couldn’t sleep without that ugly jumper. He was cold natured. And where were the Yorkie bar wrappers? John couldn’t go a day without one of those awful, raisin filled nightmares from the vending machine. 

No, this wasn’t his heart. No matter how angry or hurt he was, there’s no way John Watson would leave Sherlock’s heart without a trace. He would remain in the smallest, most insignificant and annoying facets. Always. 

Screw it, this wasn’t real Mycroft anyway. Why bother holding back? He was human now, so it didn’t matter. Sherlock sobbed. It felt like nine years' worth of pain pouring out of him, and he didn’t know where he was or what to do. 

He was lost.

“Are you happy now?” he barked at Not-Real Mycroft. “You couldn’t get rid of him before, and it turns out you didn’t have to, but you already knew that didn’t you? You always know everything! I bet real you is so happy he can’t stand it. You told me not to fall apart, warned me that I would and I did. Do you get off on it? Knowing your stupid, pitiful baby brother will never be as smart as you? I don’t need your fucking pity!”

He grabbed a vase of flowers and slammed them into the floor. 

Flowers. He never wanted to see them again.

“If you don’t need pity, then quit acting like you do,” said Not-Real Mycroft.

Sherlock had enough of Mycroft’s calm.

“I remember Victor Trevor!” he screamed. 

Not-Real Mycroft paled. He looked like somebody slapped him.

“That’s right,” said Sherlock. “I know Eurus didn’t kill my  _ dog.” _

All those years and all it took was a stray photograph shoved between the sleeves of a vinyl album. One look at the little boy standing beside him dressed as a pirate. 

Father was allergic to dogs. No matter how hard he begged, he wouldn’t let Sherlock have one. For years he didn’t remember that. For years he thought Eurus killed it. 

Redbeard. 

Victor Trevor. 

One and the same.

“You took my memories!” Sherlock accused. “I remember! Every night, coming in, coaching me, brainwashing me until you took the memory of my first friend! You went out of your way to make sure I never had another one too, and why? Afraid Eurus will escape another prison? She can’t, Mycroft, and you have no excuse!”

His throat felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t see through the tears. 

“You made me alone!”

Not-Real Mycroft didn’t say anything for a long time. 

“Sherlock, I didn’t erase Victor because I wanted to hurt you. I erased him so you’d stop suffering.”

“Well, a fuck load of good that did! I spent my whole life thinking everyone hated me, thinking no one loved me!”” He thought of his parents, how they held him at an arm's length. He thought of Mycroft, so powerful and clever he could steal intangible things. He thought of John lying. He was so alone. Painfully alone. 

Eurus said she killed Victor for the same reason.

“Stupid Sherlock,” he choked through the sobs, drowning in fire. “Losing his mind, thinking with his heart, expecting someone to love him!”

He lunged across the room and punched at Not-Real Mycroft’s face.

The hallucination caught his fist and squeezed until it hurt.

Too much for it to be fake.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. His eyes reddened and his voice shook. “Someone’s always loved you.”

Sherlock stopped breathing. 

“You’re… you’re real?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, and he pulled the boy to his chest and wouldn’t let go. “You overdosed, you fool. You took the same as when you were using, but your tolerance dropped.”

“Please, don’t,” Mycroft cried into his brother’s hair. “Please don’t do this anymore. Your loss would break my heart.”

Sherlock didn’t even know what to say to that, so he did the only thing he could think of and hugged Mycroft back.

“I don’t know what to do,” said Sherlock. “You were right about caring. It’s not an advantage. I made a mistake.”

Mycroft soothed him. “Caring isn’t an advantage, Sherlock, and love is a weakness, but do you think I don’t love and care for you? They’re weaknesses to me because someone can hurt you, but they’re strengths to you, strengths I gladly provide because I will never leave you alone.”

He urged his brother back on the bed and rang for a nurse. 

“It’s going to be okay, brother mine. We aren’t like other people, but don’t give up yet. Your friends might surprise you.” He wiped his thumb across Sherlock’s cheek, then steeled himself. 

Enough of this affection. It didn’t suit them. 

“I don’t want you making anyone do anything for me.”

Mycroft smiled. 

There was his boy.

“I had nothing to do with it,” said Mycroft, and that was mostly true. A few suggestions here and there, a small bet or two. A few agents waiting to detain any interfering teachers. “John Watson doesn’t know when to stay down. It’s the one thing you both have in common. Give him a week,” said Mycroft. “Even he should come up with something by then.”

And if he didn’t, Mycroft would deport him to a Serbian prison. 

________________________________________________________________________________

“Should we tell John?” asked Ryan.

Tyler didn’t even move. “Absolutely not.”

The two boys stood in the middle of Ryan’s room staring at a massive pile of money. Laundry baskets and laundry baskets of it piled on top of one another. Beside the horde sat a computer with a detailed spreadsheet, but it was too much. There was no way Ryan could keep up with it all. There were so many bills he could’ve sorted them into an aging progression of Queen Elizabeth’s face. He felt like a bookie.

“It’s only illegal if you have more than thirty people, isn’t it?”

Tyler wasn’t sure about the law, but he was sure about one thing. 

He took Ryan by the ear and hauled him on the stairs above the common room. It was flooded with people, so many they were spilling out the door. All of them had bills and wager forms and were looking for Ryan Gellert. 

“Does that look like thirty people to you?” asked Tyler.

Ryan had to admit it did not. It looked more like one hundred and thirty, maybe more. If his bookkeeping could be trusted (it couldn’t, part of the reason it might be illegal), over six hundred students were in on the bet.

John would skin them alive.

“Keep it in your room,” said Ryan.

“Me! I can’t. I live with Anderson. He’ll sing like a canary.”

“Well, it can’t stay with me! If Breckenridge gets wind of this, I’m sunk.”

Tyler thought. He snapped his fingers.

“Stephen!” he said. “Stephen’s never in trouble! Breckenridge would never search his room.”

The boys headed for Stephen’s, but when they walked in the room, Stephen flung off his gaming headphones and tried to stand between them and a massive wall of fireworks piled straight up to the ceiling.

“I can explain!” said Stephen.

Tyler needed to sit down.

_“Iesu Grist.”_ Ryan let out a low whistle. “How many kilos of explosives is that?”

“Realistically? Stephen counted on his fingers. “Eleven hundred.”

That’s when Tyler Briggs called his lawyer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my least favorite chapter I've written, and maybe someday I will go back and fix it. The next chapter is my favorite, so I only wish that this one leading up to it was just as good. If you actually made it this far, don't give up yet.


	18. Love, John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confesses his love in the most dramatic way possible.

John woke up fingering the starting notes of Flight of the Bumblebee at speed records previously only broken by astronauts. He hardly slept the night before and if he did dream he only caught flashes of nightmares and impossible hopes.

Today was the day.

John raked product through his sandy blonde hair and studied himself in the mirror. He looked haggard. Dark bags formed under his bloodshot eyes and his cheekbones were more pronounced. He looked more cut than before and his jeans hung loosely around his waist. Still, they were the nicest non-uniform pair that he had so he was going to wear them. 

He took the dog tags out of his V neck and turned them to where Hamish’s name could be seen. Maybe dad would be there and be proud of what he’d done. It takes twelve years to master classical guitar, and John learned it (passibly) within the span of a week. It took all of his background knowledge, all of his skill, and sacrifice on the part of his friends. If this didn’t work, at least he could sleep at night knowing he’d done all he could do.

John splashed water on his face and rebandaged his hand. It’d been a week, but it was still bleeding, much like three of his fingertips from where he lost calluses. Dorian worked him like a madman, not only tutoring him in classical, but also forcing him to read music. When he first showed John the arrangement and realized he couldn’t read it, Dorian nearly pissed himself.

“He’s illiterate!”

“I play by ear.”

“That’s what amateur musicians say when they don’t wish to admit they are lacking!”

His grades suffered, but he became a better guitarist and he had the French to thank for that, both Greg and Dorian. 

Operation: Pimp Out Greg was a rousing success. Dorian didn’t expect anything after the date. It was like he could tell Greg’s heart was somewhere else, and he didn’t hold it against him. Something about Lestrade “not being foxy enough,” even though John could tell it was really just Dorian being a good guy. Like Sherlock, he was loath to admit any shred of human decency. 

Everything reminded John of Sherlock these days. 

John called everyone. It was like after he came out to the rugby lads, he couldn’t _stop_ coming out. He called his friends from back home, only a few of whom had a problem with his newfound sexuality, and his friends from _Twisted Lip_ were used to Harry and Clara and reacted as if he were pointing out something obvious like the sun moving in the sky. A few of them even offered to skip school and come to Conan for the big event. Harry wanted to (God, did she want to), but it’d make Mum too suspicious.

John gripped the edge of the sink. 

“It’s just like a concert,” he said. “It’s only another gig.”

Mike rapped at the door. “You ready, mate?”

John closed his eyes.

_You’ll be with him by the end of the day._

“Yeah,” he answered. “I’m ready.”

________________________________________________________________________________

Molly Hooper was a badass. She’d loved Sherlock Holmes for three years, but that wasn’t going to stop her from helping John Watson sweep the man off his feet. For this, she recruited Stephen Goalla, computer wiz and hacker extraordinaire, contacting him intermittently as he kept surveillance with a drone. 

Molly personally coordinated a detailed security squadron built entirely of field hockey girls. With the stakes so high, many in The Opposition (those on the negative side of the bet) had taken to sabotage. Harp strings were cut. Sheet music incinerated. It was up to the girls to ensure all ran smoothly.

“Hawkeye, this is Black Widow. Do you copy?”

Stephen’s walkie-talkie buzzed. “Loud and clear, Black Widow. Rebel forces put down in sector five. Over.”

“And Breckenridge is sufficiently distracted? Over.”

“Union Jack has the servers down and the headmaster’s house suffering overflowing toilets. Over.”

Union Jack, otherwise known as Mycroft Holmes, promised to aid the cause given Greg Lestrade was never again put in the line of fire. The Movement (AKA Johnlock shippers) accepted the terms granted Dorian was given full amnesty. He might have a God complex, but he’d tutored John ceaselessly all week, and The Movement didn’t want him disappearing into the night. 

“Roger that, Hawkeye. Are the Lads in position with the heavy artillery? Over.”

Stephen didn’t skip a beat. He was nothing if not thorough. “The Lads await Signal Code: Canon in D. All artillery checked and double-checked. Lighters at the ready. Over.”

“Roger that, Hawkeye. Over and out.”

She clicked her walkie-talkie to her tactical pants and ripped a member of The Opposition’s head out of the toilet.

“So,” she asked. “Are you ready to play nice?”

________________________________________________________________________________

It was an overcast Saturday morning. 

Sherlock didn’t want to accept it, but he’d promised Mycroft. He didn’t normally care about promises to his older brother, but things had changed between them. This promise was different: 

If John Watson hadn’t apologized within a week, he’d let him go. He’d move on, and he didn’t think he was ready for that.

But a week had come and gone.

He _wouldn’t_ go to rehab. They’d already tried that years ago and he just broke into the closets where the medical staff kept the drugs to wean junkies. He also didn’t want to switch schools.

Could he remain at Conan with John and be okay?

For now, what they'd do about his addiction was up in the air. At the very least, he had to stay until he solved the case. With all avenues exhausted, he had no choice but to wait for the would-be murderer to strike again anyway. Agatha survived.

Whoever he struck next might not be so lucky.

Sherlock rolled out of the bed he hadn’t slept in and flicked on the bunsen burner. Maybe he could build a bomb to keep the boredom at bay, he thought, but then a knock came at the door.

When he didn’t answer right away, a boombox blasted on the other side playing the most annoying song known to man. Sherlock recognized it as something from a game called Super Mario Brothers. 

Fuck John Watson and all the stupid rubbish he’d shoved in his head. 

Sherlock ripped open the door ready to scream, but when he did, no one was there. Only a boombox and a small note by a bouquet of poisonous flowers and a sack of severed hands. It read: OPEN YOUR WINDOW. PLEASE LISTEN. I’LL LEAVE YOU ALONE AFTER THIS IF YOU WANT. PLEASE GIVE IT A CHANCE. LOVE, JOHN

Love, John. 

His heart stopped. John wanted him to listen to something?

Sherlock thought he didn’t care anymore, that he didn’t want to be his friend at all. He was tempted to take up John’s tarmac headphones for spite, but another part of him wondered:

What’s the little man up to now? 

And so he pulled back his curtains and threw open the window. There, sitting on the front lawn, was every member of the school orchestra, a sound system, and John standing with his guitar and a full metal band at his back. None of it made sense, but the whole school seemed to be there, and he only hoped it was what it looked like.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Are you sure this is gonna work?” asked John.

Dorian looked insulted in a way only the French can. “Of course! It is impossible not to listen to one of my arrangements, even one sprinkled with your _païen, musique de garage.”_

This was no time to duel about the virtues of metalcore. 

This was John’s apology to Sherlock, and he’d do it his way or not at all. 

“Ready?” asked Dorian. 

John looked at everyone around him. His friends from Nottingham, the girls cheering at the sidelines/keeping surveillance, even the orchestra at his back. Betty nodded encouragingly from her cello, and Eddy and Brett were in the middle of a practice headbang grinning like fools. 

He had the world right now, but he was missing the person he loved the most. 

“I’m ready,” said John. He almost couldn’t bear to see if Sherlock was standing at the window. 

John turned to his friends one last time and cleared his throat. “I know this is a big risk for all involved. You’ve put in your time, your passion, and your trust. Before we go through with this, I want to thank you for being here. Even if this doesn’t work, I will owe each and every one of you a debt of gratitude and more.”

Brett and Eddy glanced at one another with shit-eating grins. Debt, nothing. John could talk doom and gloom like Captain America all he wanted, but the movement was far from altruistic. 

He stepped up to the mic and exhaled. 

_You can do this._

He’d learned more about classical music in the last week than he ever wanted to know in his life. He’d practiced so hard his fingers bled. He’d learned to read music. His friends had sacrificed their time, their money, their dignity (Greg), and he couldn’t let them down, not in the final stretch. 

McFadden stood at the podium with his baton and, with the flick of his wrists, the symphony began at a slow but melodic beat. The violins played smoother than John’d ever heard them, and suddenly the orchestra stopped, waiting for him.

Now or never.

He picked the beginning riff of _Toccata and Fugue_ by Bach, hanging vibrato on the final note, and then the drums and the rest of the orchestra burst onto the scene and the crowd went wild. 

Bach was Sherlock’s favorite. 

McFadden signaled a key change and the students shifted into _Beethoven’s 5th_ , then _In the Hall of the Mountain King (_ percussion really got a kick out of that one) _,_ then _The Flight of the Bumblebee,_ then _Rondo alla Turca,_ then _Summer from The Four Seasons_ by Vivaldi in a fantastic medley ripping through the old masters one by one. 

Betty and the boys were really rip-roaring by the time they hit the William Tell Overture (original French title Guillaume Tell, thank you very much, according to Dorian). They were well on the way. It was the last song before Canon in D, the signal for the boys to set off the fireworks display.

Eddy played so hard Brett thought he’d shake his hair out. 

“Gioachino Rossini eat your fucking heart out, man!” 

He was caught up in the throes of passion, all care for his £500 right out the window, so lost was he in his love for music. Truly overcome by art. 

Brett, a more frugal man, labored no such delusions. 

“Mind your technique, you maniac! Sherlock will notice!”

And John couldn’t help it anymore. He looked up, and sure enough, Sherlock was there, holding his violin at the ready. He wasn’t playing. Just… standing. 

It was enough to cause John to muck up a whole riff. 

Something wasn’t right.

“Wait. Wait!” he cried, calling off the entire orchestra, except for Eddy, who had to be restrained. 

The crowd murmured in confusion. 

“What the hell do you think you are doing? Why did you stop?” Dorian demanded, and a few other things too, but John didn’t speak French well enough to understand him. 

“Just… wait.”

The crowd fell silent. John looked up and he couldn’t believe his ears. At first he thought the beginning strokes were just a coincidence, but they picked up, blending together in an unmistakable melody.

It was the Mission Impossible theme song. 

When Sherlock finished, he stared down at John, his violin held in a manner that said he could be at the ready again at a moment's notice. 

“What is that song? I do not know it!” Dorian tugged at his blond mane. 

“Dude, hell yeah! It was Mission Impossible!” cried Eddy. 

Brett whacked him with the back of his hand. “What does it mean, John? Is he… rejecting you?”

Brett said it like a man who couldn’t believe his ears, though the words came from his own mouth.

“No,” John said slowly. “He’s… He wants us to play back.”

McFadden looked alarmed. His baton hung limply from his hand and he shifted his gaze from Sherlock to John to Dorian then back again. 

“No,” Dorian held his head in defiance. “I will not compromise the arrangement.”

“Trust me!” said John, and he’d already motioned the orchestra. “It’s a challenge. He wants us to fight!” 

Sherlock began playing again, and John met him note for note with what felt like a whole army at his back. At some point, a roadie raced up the stairs with a microphone so Sherlock could be heard.

He played the most exquisite notes. How had John ever fought with him over the violin?

John felt a shift, a weakness in Sherlock’s resolve. How’d he even know the Mission Impossible theme anyway? John took control, bleeding into some God awful violin concerto by Mendelssohn that Sherlock adored. The orchestra played it full force, playing forte in places they shouldn’t, but John only had ears for Sherlock, who doubled back and flipped the whole tune out of sheer stubbornness alone. 

What John heard nearly knocked him over. 

_It was the James Bond theme!_

“Holy fucking shit!” cried Greg in the far off field. “What the hell are they doing?”

Molly and Stephen, who’d snuck away to explain to the lads what went down, only smiled.

“I didn’t know Sherlock liked Bond!” said Ryan. “I saw him checking out DVDs in the library, but I thought it was some clever way to buy drugs off Feuerstein.”

“But _why_ is he playing songs like that?” asked Mike. “I lived with him for two years! The man hates contemporary music _and_ television!”

“Idiots,” said Molly with a smile on her face. “It’s a love song.”

“A love song?” said Stephen. The lads looked at one another and shrugged.

“Don’t you see?” asked Molly. “They’re things that Sherlock and John both like.”

Watson, determined and sure, wailed classical in the distance. Sherlock, by contrast, sawed away at movie themes beloved by John. It was a love song, many love songs, just not anything the world would expect.

“Our Baker Hall boys,” Molly sighed, sashaying down the line of lads. “Better get ready. John’s adopted a flair for the dramatic. Expect it in three, two, one...”

________________________________________________________________________________

Molly was right. At the end of the Avengers theme, John screamed at the top of his lungs, a death growl echoed by the Orchestra, “Canon in D!” and shredded like never before. 

Johann Pachelbel was probably headbanging against his casket lid somewhere six feet under in Germany. 

It was that fire. 

And on that note, the lads bolted to their stations, setting off explosion after explosion in the most dazzling display of pyrotechnics imaginable. The day was just cloudy enough to see them. Stephen had wanted to wait till nightfall, but John refused to go one more hour. Bursts of green, red, orange and blue filled the sky, the largest and flashiest and loudest of all (purple, Sherlock’s favorite color) pulverized heaven, raining down in vanishing flairs as the music stopped and the world became silent once more. 

John’s chest heaved. He looked up at Sherlock, slowly lowering his violin. His face didn’t give away any emotion. Then he set down his instrument, slammed the window shut, and closed the curtains.

John felt his heart jump into his throat and the bottom fall out of his world. 

He’d failed. 

The crowd murmured. Some insensitive sod started cheering, but even The Opposition knew that this was a low blow and silenced him. The orchestra didn’t make a sound. 

John had to be a man about his. He turned to face the orchestra and his friends.

“I know things didn’t turn out how we wanted today,” he struggled to control his voice. “But… now I know I’ve done all I can do. _We’ve_ done all we could do. I meant what I said earlier. I owe you a debt of thanks. I’m sorry,” he nearly cried. “I’m sorry.”

Betty shot out of her seat. She pointed with her bow. “Look!”

Did he dare?

John turned and saw Sherlock walking calmly out the door. He had his hands in his bathrobe pockets like there weren't over a thousand people staring at him and whispering. Like his roommate hadn’t just serenaded him in front of the whole school. 

Finally, after what felt like an eon, he came to a stop before John.

Neither of them seemed to know what to say. 

John gathered his courage.

“Hey.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock didn’t know what he was doing, and furthermore, he didn’t know what the blazing hells John was doing. 

John didn’t even look at him for the longest time. He just stood there playing classical on his electric guitar until something stupid Eddy Chen did caused him to look up. When he saw Sherlock holding his violin, somber and ready, John’s face plummeted and he fucked up a whole seven bars.

Really, John? Unprofessional. 

Understanding flashed across John’s face and he silenced the whole orchestra. He knew what Sherlock was doing.

Good. That made one of them. 

Sherlock thought of all the awful movies John loved, of all the terrible action flicks he’d watched for some inexplicable reason in John’s absence when he was supposedly mourning the loss of his friend. 

John had rejected him, led him on, made him think that he could love him and brushed him to the wayside. John had been embarrassed for loving Sherlock. For loving the _Freak._ Why then was he standing among a throng of people doing this? It was so obviously directed at Sherlock. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t straight. People would know.

Then, Sherlock realized, that was the point.

This was both an apology and a public confession.

He was a man of action, and his actions said _I want you, and I want everyone to know. Please forgive me. Please listen._

How could he not? John, you wonderful, sodding prick.

Sherlock studied his body language, terrified and hopeful, based on his expression. The bags under his eyes indicated he hadn’t been sleeping. The blood running down his finger indicated he’d lost a callus, probably from playing too much. His bleeding palm — _He’d been telling the truth about that?_

John hated classical, looked down on it, but it was difficult. Deceptively difficult. How had he mastered it so quickly? He would have needed a teacher. Dorian? It had to be Dorian, but why would Hardgrave help John? He must have asked for an incredible favor. And where were the rugby lads? And where were the teachers? 

Whatever the answers, Sherlock didn’t have to deduce that John had busted his ass throwing all of this together. Sherlock gulped despite the violin beneath his chin. He felt oddly… moved. 

Ah, hell. He was _floored._ Flabbergasted. Stunned. This was the greatest gesture quite possibly in the history of gestures, and it was for _him_. From John!

But he’d hurt him, cut him _deep._ What if John’s mum found out and he backtracked on his sexuality again? What if this was about salvaging their friendship and not a declaration of love?

Love. Did he dare hope for that? 

He looked down at the note on the desk.

Love, John.

What had Mycroft said? Caring and love were weaknesses, but maybe his love could be John’s strength and John’s his. If they loved each other, they had nothing to fear.

_“They’re strengths to you, strengths I gladly provide because I will never leave you alone.”_

You know what? Fuck fear, and fuck Mission: Impossible.

Sherlock thought of the catchy, mind-numbingly boring tune and sawed it out. All those wasted hours in front of the television were worth it for the look on John’s face.

He wasn’t the only one who could be full of surprises. 

John shouted something Dorian disagreed with and the orchestra joined him, playing the song they were apparently all familiar with. He hadn’t locked his door since the boombox incident, and it was a good thing too. Someone brought him a sound system so he could fight back. 

The orchestra hit a riff he didn’t remember. He faltered and John seized the moment, hijacking the tune straight into Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto, 3rd Movement. It was one of Sherlock’s favorites, and John always complained, said he couldn’t stand it. 

He’d learned that for him? 

Two can play at that game.

The orchestra didn’t want to give it up, but Sherlock was persistent, screeching on his violin until he threw them, and then he turned the tune to something he knew John couldn’t resist.

James Fucking Bond. 

John literally staggered. The blast of the trumpets was the only thing keeping him up.

_Better play with me John, because I’m never doing this again._

And he did, looking downright giddy the whole time like he could die from happiness. Sherlock didn’t know John could dance like that.

_Okay, so I might play this sometimes. For you. When you’re good._

John shredded straight into Beethoven’s 9th, then Vivaldi’s _Storm,_ and Sherlock fired back with the theme from Avengers until John was so rained down upon he was forced to play his final card.

“Canon in D!” He screamed it, the same as he had during his and Sherlock’s first fight. So it was a kind of singing style. It was also, apparently, a signal. 

Fireworks exploded in the distance and Sherlock _missed a note._ No one but him would notice he’d faltered in CLASSICAL, his home turf, but he was shook. 

He played till the end with everyone else, but as soon as he stopped, he slammed the window shut and closed the curtain. 

He had to get to John.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Hey.”

John felt like an idiot. “Hey?” That’s the best he could come up with? He prepared fifteen contingency plans and two doomsday directives, but he didn’t plan what to say? 

Stupid fuck.

The taller boy before him didn’t show the slightest sign of emotion. He was gaunt, paler even though it’d only been a week. Hadn’t he worked on the case? Hadn’t he had something to keep him going? Had John really cut him that bad? Suddenly the medley didn’t seem enough, not by a long shot. 

“You hate Mendelssohn,” Sherlock finally said. His voice was even, cool.

“Yeah,” breathed John. “But you hate Bond.”

It finally brought out a smile.

“Yes, well, I might have lost my mind in your absence and watched a movie or two. Man’s no good without his blogger, it turns out.” 

John huffed, smiling, and wiped the sweat off his lip with the back of his hand. God, he couldn’t believe he’d made it this far. 

“Has Mycroft seen this, by the way?” said Sherlock, glancing around like a king surveying his kingdom. “I want him to have an accurate measure of what really counts as dramatic.”

“Oh, like you would have talked to me if I’d done anything less than this?” countered John. “My total drama queen.”

“Yours, yes,” Sherlock said sadly. His cyan eyes betrayed something like grief, but he soldiered on. “Can you blame me? You’re irresistible when you’re groveling.” 

John drew a sharp breath. “What did you say?”

“Groveling,” frowned Sherlock. Did John not like that estimation? He didn’t want to make John upset.

“Groveling. You know, like begging? Not that you’re begging. That was only a joke—”

“That you’re mine, Sherlock! Did you mean it? You said ‘yours.’ I’m not a genius like you. You have to say it.”

But Sherlock didn’t say anything. He wasn’t himself. He looked almost… defeated.

Fine, he liked groveling? John would give him groveling.

“Sherlock, I am a complete dickhead,” he said, using the phrase he’d called Sherlock long ago in the hospital. “I hurt you and I acted ashamed to have feelings for you, even though it should be the other way around. If anything, you should be ashamed to be with me, and I wouldn’t blame you if you already feel that way.”

John licked his lips and looked at Sherlock’s shoes, clenching and unclenching his sweaty fists. It was so true, so why was it the hardest thing he’d ever had to say?

“You’re extraordinary, and I’m ordinary. I’m obstinate and stupid, and more than in the way everyone is compared to you. I was too afraid of what other people thought of me, of what my mum and my friends would think, to see that being with you is an honor. It is an honor, Sherlock, and I’m so sorry. And if this embarrassed you, I’m sorry for that too.” 

John was crying now.

“I don’t give a _damn_ what anyone else thinks! I don’t give a damn you’re a boy. I was a fool to ever let that keep me from you. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing to you, and I don’t care if you don’t want to be my boyfriend. I want you any way you’ll have me, so please say we’re friends again.”

John stepped forward and took Sherlock’s hands in his own, looking hopefully into the other boy’s eyes. “Please.”

The words spilled out of John before he even knew he’d thought them. It was a Livestream. A personal broadcast in front of God and everybody. 

And John Watson didn’t care. He just wanted his best friend back.

McFadden leaned in, Eddy, Brett, and Betty leaned in, and Molly and the rugby lads came bounding over the hill.

“Look, there!” pointed Mike, who was the tallest.

“Do you see anything?” panted Molly. “What’s happening?”

Mike didn’t know. “They’re just… talking.”

“Is that _all?”_ asked Molly. Holmes would have to be a damn fool. 

“Wait…” Mike squinted, and Ryan and Tyler put Molly and Stephen on their shoulders. 

Greg had a pair of police binoculars, so he saw first. He didn’t believe his eyes.

Sherlock’s emotionless facade finally shattered and his face crumbled as he fought to hold in a sob. 

“I _missed_ you,” he said, his chest heaving. “Every day I looked for you in our room like you might come back. I didn’t sleep, because I thought at least then I might hallucinate you.”

“Sherlock—”

“No, listen! I can’t do it. I promised Mycroft I could, but I can’t. I can’t let you go, John.” Sherlock looked at nothing in particular and shook his head, his brows knitted close and his face twisted in anguish. “I wondered every day why you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” John pressed Sherlock’s palm against his cheek. He gazed up at him adoringly. “I loved you, Sherlock Holmes. I still do. I ran from you that morning in the showers for the same reason I ran from you that night.”

He took Sherlock’s face in his free hand and stroked his cheek. Sherlock nuzzled into it like it was a lifeline, smiling softly. It was innocent, yet intimate. People in the crowd looked away.

“I’ve never loved anyone as strongly as I love you. I never will. I was so afraid of my feelings I ran like a coward, but I’m done with that now. No matter what comes, hell or high water, I’ll stand beside you. I promise I won’t leave you alone again.”

Never again.

A kiss can happen unexpectedly between two people drawn to one another, caught up in a magnetic field, but to the students, it happened very quickly. They saw John leaning up, his eyes half-closed and his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, and they saw Sherlock leaning down and crashing his lips against John’s. The campus erupted. Even the opposition was seen cheering. If Sherlock and John knew anything was going on around them, they didn’t show it. 

“Holy shit!” Ryan was so excited he tossed Stephen off his shoulders. 

Greg took out his talkie and spoke into the static. “Attention Mission Control. Send word to Union Jack. The otter has made contact with the hedgehog. I repeat: the otter has made contact with the hedgehog!”

Sherlock let up on John just enough to form words. “Not good?”

“Are you kidding?” John was in a daze. “Not good. Phenomenal,” and he pulled Sherlock back down, knocking them both in the grass. 

Police sirens sounded across campus, and people scattered, bounding over bushes and abandoning instruments worth more than houses in the dirt. It looked like Breckenridge called in forces from six towns over. 

Sherlock abandoned his lover, a very confused John, and made for cover. He’d let John stir just a _little bit._ After all, someone had to post bail, and by the end of the night, John, Ryan and Tyler especially, and the whole of the orchestra found themselves in the debt of the benevolent British government who’d not only paid for their release but blocked all news of the event from their parents and the mainstream media.

Mission: Accomplished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My OCs wish me to inform you that "Canon in D is more like Canon to your ear-drums" and "to well with the author's cliche musical choices." They said I had to tell you or they wouldn't let the scene happen. Forgive me, I have to negotiate with them like tiny, fictional terrorist.


	19. Romance and Fun Times/Murder and Solve Crimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a fluff chapter.
> 
> The title explains itself.
> 
> *there is a lemon (is that seriously what we're calling it?) and I don't think it counts, but the fictional word-mongers insist that it does and they get what they want.

The prison door clanked open.

Officer York read from a clipboard, “Mr. John H. Watson?” 

Every cell in the station was jam-packed with Conan students. Countless stood crammed together on the concrete floor, twelve students squeezed on a single bunk, another twenty squeaked on a lone bench, and Sally Donovan had to stand with one foot in the toilet at the back wall.

“Mr. John H. Watson?” Officer York repeated.

“Here! God, I’m over here!”

John stood at the front, his cheek compressed against the cold, steel bars. The throng flattened him to where he could barely shimmy.

“Oi! Back it up, you lot,” the officer commanded, and there were wails of protests as others were crushed when the front moved a fraction of an inch to let John Watson out.

He felt like his lungs hadn’t expanded since he’d been in there. 

“Someone’s posted your bail,” said York, “And the rest of you as well!” he called. 

The students cheered with relief, but then York slammed the door shut. 

“Hey!”

“Oi, you can’t leave us in here!”

“How come he gets out?”

“We’ve got rights, you know!”

The protests reached a fever pitch. It was deafening.

Officer York took John by the shoulder and led him away from the rising crescendo. As far as York knew, this was a government coverup. The rest of the students wouldn’t get out until they’d been individually threatened and had their confiscated phones and social media accounts wiped of the last twenty-four hours. He didn’t mind. It would have taken him ages to file the paperwork, but as it were, all charges were dismissed and the station was crawling with government agents happy to do the chore for him.

“Here you are,” said York, depositing John on the front step.

“Don’t I have to be processed?” he asked. 

“No need. Apparently, you’re special. As far as the powers that be are concerned, today never happened.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

John whipped towards the voice. 

Sherlock stood at the base of the stairs, groomed and huddled up in his long, black coat with the collar popped.

“Sherlock!” 

He bounded down the stairs.

“Where the hell did you go?” 

That bloody man. One moment Sherlock was snogging John in the dirt, causing him to have quite the response in front of hundreds of people, and the next he was booking it across the lawn and scaling the tree to Greg’s room.

What a bastard.

Sherlock snorted, smiling. “Someone had to call Mycroft. Plus I had to move you back into the room, shower, you know, the little things to make you more comfortable.”

John scoffed. There was an indent mark on his left cheek that testified that any other course of action would have been more comfortable, and he said so too.

“I thought they were going to shove me straight through the bars, Sherlock! Pressed into three separate pieces!”

“The greatest thing since sliced Watson.”

“You asshole.”

“Come on, that was good.”

They walked down the street, bantering the whole way. John worried that once they got together, things would change, that their friendship turned relationship would become sickeningly sweet and stuffy, but it hadn’t. They were still the same, still able to throw playful insults and backhanded compliments, only now he could hold Sherlock’s hand while doing it. 

Sherlock stumbled in the middle of a barb, looking down at their interlocked fingers. 

“You don’t mind?” he asked. “In public?”

“For an observant guy, you sure miss a lot. Public exhibition of my love for you resulting in my arrest ringing any bells?”

Sherlock blushed all the way up to his ears. John gave his hand a squeeze. 

“It’s you and me, baby, till the end of the line.”

“Oh, hell,” Sherlock cringed. “You’re referencing that dreadful movie, aren’t you?”

“YOU WATCHED THE WINTER SOLDIER?”

John grilled him all the way to Conan, and Sherlock interrogated him right back, asking about all the things they’d been doing since their separation. John explained his grief about his mother. He talked about his conversation with Greg, his dance battle at the silent disco, and how much Sherlock would have slayed, and how they should go together. He talked about the orchestra and how Dorian had trained him, and, of course, he told Sherlock how much he’d missed him.

John asked about the case, though he’d already pumped Molly for information, and listened as Sherlock’s face lit up. He spoke with his hands, flailing them everywhere while still holding John’s and at one point almost lifting John up off the ground. 

“He’s a clever one, that son of a bitch. Oh ho! He’s _good._ I’m almost _STUMPED!_ But now that you’re back, his days as a free man are numbered. I have an inkling about where to find him, but if it turns a dead end we may have to wait until he strikes again.”

“You think he’ll try to kill someone else?” said John. “But Agatha didn’t come back.”

“Agatha wasn’t _the_ target, she was just target _practice._ We’ve either got someone working their way up to a murder or a practicing serial killer on our hands. God, my brain hasn’t felt this good in a week!”

He looked down at John and squeezed his hand, lifting it up over his heart as Conan appeared over the hill. 

“But let’s not talk about that now. I’m just happy we’re together again.”

John had to do a double-take. 

“Who the hell are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

“Pardon?”

“You never _not_ want to talk about a case! What’s gotten into you?”

“A lot of things could get into me, John, but that’s all up to you.”

Sherlock’s brain may have been working alright, but John’s crashed in a fiery explosion. 

Sherlock blushed. He had the nerve to blush at his own pickup line! 

“Yes, well, what I mean,” he cleared his throat, “is that we don’t have to talk about the case if you don’t want to.”

“No, you didn’t,” said John. _“‘A lot of things could get into me?_ ’ Sherlock Holmes, did you just make a pass at me?”

He turned six shades. It was truly a study in scarlet.

“I may have spoken my mind a bit.”

“A bit? That’s a system of measurement for us?”

“I sure hope not.”

“Sherlock!”

What a natural flirt.

Despite this, Sherlock was still the one blushing.

Lord, he looked adorable this way. 

John wiggled his eyebrows at him as they walked. “You know, I never pegged you as such a charmer.”

“John, I’m begging you,” Sherlock said. “Choose your words more carefully because you’re making this too easy.”

Now John was the one with warm cheeks. 

They walked through the gardens on their way into the school. Most everything was dead in November, but a few pumpkins and chrysanthemums remained, along with stalks of corn and other fall vegetables. The school orchard carried the fragrant smell of fresh apples, thousands of which were stacked in wooden baskets at the bases of the trees. Sherlock reached up and plucked a green one from a branch.

He handed it to John. “It might be a while till the takeout is here. I know you didn’t eat breakfast.”

John didn’t ask for a deduction. 

“You know I don’t eat before gigs, don’t you?”

“With your nervous habits,” he tried to phrase it politely, “it seemed fairly obvious.”

John accepted the apple and bit a chunk out of it. He was hungry enough not to care about a little dirt on the skin.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, juice trailing down his chin.

Sherlock fought the natural impulse to lean down and lick it away.

“Have you?”

He blinked back. 

“You know I haven’t.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me! When’s the last time you ate?”

“I’m _fine,_ John.”

John shoved the apple in Sherlock’s face.

“I’ll admit I’ve been a shit friend, but I’m not going to be a shit boyfriend. You need this more than me.”

“But you’ve lost weight.”

“Don’t care!” said John. “From now on we’re both eating regular meals and getting healthy. What if we need to be physically fit for a case?”

Nice try, temptress.

“Adrenaline can get you and me through anything. We don’t need a regimen.”

“Would you just eat the damn apple already?”

They entered the back stairwell sometime later, still bickering about Sherlock’s eating habits when John stopped suddenly and jumped to a step above Sherlock so that their faces were on level. He grinned.

“Do you remember this spot?” he asked. “I take this route every afternoon even though our room is closer on the other side. Can you deduce why?”

Sherlock didn’t know what he was on about, but in John’s defense, Sherlock’s brain went on a tangent, thinking stupid thoughts like how John had the most beautiful eyebrows. Such quirky, big ears that balanced out his fetching little nose. So long and angular at the end.

“I… imagine it must have either emotional significance or some type of tactical advantage?”

John leaned in and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“Both,” he said, kissing the tip of his nose. “This is where you told me the fire alarms ‘just go off’ and we had to wade to our dorm from the flood you’d caused.”

“I thought you didn’t like that.”

“I don’t encourage it,” John smirked. 

Sherlock gulped. 

“But it’s where I decided you were a consistent wild ride instead of a one-and-done car chase kind of person.”

John kissed him on the lips and pulled away.

It was over already? 

_Not if I have anything to say about it._

Sherlock took John by the back of the neck and backed him against the wall. He sucked on John’s upper lip and teased at the corner of his mouth before darting his tongue inside and ghosting over his teeth. John stiffened in surprise, but quickly recovered himself, meeting Sherlock stroke for stroke. John sucked on his tongue and rolled into his body, and the sounds Sherlock made were _divine_ , halfway between a whine for mercy and a plea for more. 

He tasted of apple and oolong.

John shoved his hands under Sherlock’s coat and clawed at the back of his shirt, drawing a loud groan that echoed up and down the stairwell. He rocked at the base of Sherlock’s thigh and had to pull away, sucking a breath.

He couldn’t form words, only moans and exclamations of pleasure. 

Sherlock did the same, undulating against John’s leg and not breaking eye contact except for intimate ministrations, dipping his hand into John’s loose jeans and tugging at the waistband of his pants.

Sherlock descended on John’s neck, nipping at his collarbone and lapping his pulse point. The slick sound of his tongue did things for John he didn’t know he needed, and he fisted Sherlock’s hair and pulled.

“Harder,” John groaned. 

John felt Sherlock’s hand tighten around his shaft. Their rhythms quickened, and John bit Sherlock’s neck, sucking till the skin popped out of his mouth.

John’s head fell back, his eyes half-hooded. “Like that, baby. Do it like that. Please.”

Sherlock cocked his head and bit down on John’s shoulder through his shirt. He switched sides and bit at the base of his bare throat and worked his way up to his jawline, bruising him, ruining him. He wouldn’t be able to hide it. He wouldn’t want to.

John felt Sherlock harden and lengthen against his thigh. They were both at the precipice. They wouldn’t last if they stayed here.

“Sher… Sherlock, babe, I don’t think I can make it. I’m closer than,” John’s thoughts derailed. “I’m closer than you.”

“No you’re not,” his voice vibratoed. “Here’s fine.”

John’s head fell back in ecstasy. God, he was close, so horribly, embarrassingly close. 

“Look at me,” Sherlock begged. “Here is fine, isn’t it?”

John could only grunt. “Best place in the world.”

Sherlock doubled down, attending to John and pistoning himself against his boyfriend’s leg until he could scarcely keep his eyes open.

“Y-you’re just like...” he moaned, hitting every pitch imaginable. “ _You’re like chasing a_ _high_.”

He released a shuddering breath.

John felt his abdomen clench, and when Sherlock rubbed his own member against his, he lost it. His orgasm lashed through him and the world went white.

Sherlock slammed himself home, chasing his climax until he quaked and drug them both to the floor panting. 

They held each other on the steps, sticky and out of breath. 

“Christ,” John breathed. 

Sherlock’s heart beat heavy beneath his hand. John pulled him near and kissed his forehead.

Finally, he calmed and said, “I — I read it.”

“What?” John asked. His own chest was still heaving.

“When you were in jail,” said Sherlock. “I was anxious you’d wanna try something, so I read it.”

It took John a moment to process. 

He _didn’t._ He _couldn’t._

“You’re a virgin?”

Sherlock rolled his head to the side. “Does… does this not count?”

John thought about it. 

“It counts.”

Sherlock smiled and put one arm behind his head, the other tight around John’s shoulders. 

“Then I’m not anymore.”

Jesus, this man would be the death of him.

“So,” said Sherlock, rolling over on his side, “you think I’m a wild ride, huh?”

John fought a laugh and lost. 

“Shut up, Sherlock,” he said fondly, and they kissed as though breathing the same air.

________________________________________________________________________________

The lawn beneath John and Sherlock’s window transformed from a barren patch of grass into a sparkling festival of lights overnight. It was the last Saturday before the start of the rugby season and the first festival of the school year. It was all anyone could talk about, so much so Sherlock was able to walk to class without being whistled at and called a heartbreaker, a Casanova, a tease, or a man among men. That fact alone made him almost excited for the festival on his own account.

Large carnival rides, rainbow-colored booths, and hibachi grills sprawled across the lawns while international students scurried up posts and across balconies with fairy lights and streamers. Fifteen different national flags breezed in the school's driveway, and marked tents with the swords of Saudi Arabia, the lotus flower of Macau, and the proud seal of sunny Spain lined the street outside Aiken House.

Sherlock had attended Conan for four years, but he’d never bothered with the school’s Light the Night Festival before. It was a showcase for the school’s diversity, an international food and film festival hosted by Conan’s foreign language departments, although any bilingual student was welcome to host an event. 

Brett and Eddy normally spent the evening racing back and forth from their Australian BBQ to whatever Taiwanese film they projected against a sheet on the south lawn. Stephen always made Indian food too hot for anyone to eat, until finally he smartened up and marketed his event as a sort of hot pepper challenge that students felt for the rest of the week. Even Ryan got in on the fun, choosing little-known films featuring black Welsh actors and forcing Tyler to practice the language. So far, all he knew were profanities and how to critique Welsh cheeses. 

The event also marked three weeks till the upcoming Fall Ball, which meant the boys had to _ask_ someone, as in _speak_ to a living, breathing _girl_ , and the festival was the best opportunity yet. So far, Sherlock, John, and Mike were the only people with dates. 

This could not stand. 

Sherlock Holmes and Mike Stamford could not be allowed to have more game than the rest of the lads.

The boys plotted by the common room fireplace. It was another three hours until the festival began, and Sherlock found himself sitting in on the impromptu war room meeting on a large armchair with John on his lap, his boyfriend’s arm hanging limply around his neck and his cheek hot against his ear. Sherlock almost didn’t mind being forced to socialize.

Almost.

“What’s this say about us?” asked Stephen. “Mike’s got all the grace of seizing howler monkey and Sherlock and John are practically married. Meanwhile, a couple of handsome blokes like us are single. It’s a disgrace.”

“Brett tried Hilary Hahn in conservatory this morning,” said Eddy.

“What happened?”

“He told her she violined good and tried to lean against his own bow. Snapped the bloody thing in two and dominoed a row of music stands.”

“Blimey, where’s he now?”

“In the showers. I think he’s trying to drown himself.”

“It doesn’t help someone,” Greg glared accusingly at John, “set the bar so damn high.”

“Me?” John said, straightening in Sherlock’s lap. 

“Don’t act like a daft fool!” snapped Tyler. “Every woman in the school’s tripping over themselves to get a bloke like you.”

Sherlock tightened his grip around John’s waist and scowled. 

Tyler sensed he may have poked a sore spot and soothed, “I said a bloke _like_ him, you besotted old sod. They know he’s with you.”

“No, they don’t,” Greg laughed. “Didn’t you hear? Kitty Riley cornered John in chemistry on Wednesday. She doesn’t even take the class.”

 _“No._ The scandal! What’d you do, mate? You can’t ruddy well hit a girl.”

“He didn’t,” said Greg. “But she won’t be dancing anytime soon, that’s for sure.”

Everyone stared at Sherlock expectantly. He still wasn’t used to having more than one friend, and he definitely wasn’t used to wooing-strategy conversation, but for John? 

Anything. 

He sighed. “I may have,” he glanced down at his feet, still snug in his slippers despite the late hour, “accidentally dropped a beaker on her feet.”

“Dropped, nothing! The woman’s got chemical burns all the way up to her knees!”

Yes, that _had_ been a row. John, while moved by the gesture, was decidedly not pleased and had slept with his shirt on for the last three nights. A low blow, to be sure. 

Everyone laughed. 

“See, John?” he turned to the boy in his lap. “ _They_ all think it’s funny.”

“We put criminals in the hospital, baby. Not women who make a pass at me!” 

Sherlock groused. 

“Baby?” Greg perked.

“You two have pet names?” Mike said. “Watson, that is too cute.”

“What’s he call you?” Greg asked. “Honey?”

“Darling?”

“Sweetie?”

“My long-legged murder pony?”

“I hear John does an awful lot of riding these days,” said Ryan waggling his brows. 

The boys wolf-whistled. 

“We do not!” Sherlock protested, stomping one foot and jostling John. “John has annoying habits, many of which I’m trying to break, but as I’m sure you’re all aware, he is soul-crushingly persistent. We do not have pet names. He has a perfectly good name on his birth certificate which I happily use. Now I demand we drop this subject at once.”

John fought to tame a smirk.

Greg narrowed his eyes. His police senses tingled, so he studied the couple’s body language, and lo and behold —

_No._

Sherlock was _fibbing!_

Greg swore on his future at Scotland Yard he’d solve the case of the Watsonian pet name by the end of the night, but at the moment, he had more pressing matters to attend. 

“Sherlock,” Greg cleared his throat, “You don’t think Myc might want to go, do you?”

Sherlock lifted his brow. “Mike? He’s going with Betty. Even you should know that.”

“I meant Mycroft.”

He didn’t answer.

“Your brother?”

He still didn't answer. 

“Handsome? Red-headed? Carries an umbrella and enjoys threatening people? It’s really sexy, actually—”

“I know who he is! The question is how do you?” He looked at John, wearing an expression that said, _I’m shocked as hell about this, how come_ you’re _not shocked as hell about this? Explain yourself,_ but John only busied himself with a thread on his shirt sleeve. 

“Well,” Greg started, rubbing his silver hair, “I used to spy for him, sort of. On you. But I quit and gave back the money, so you can’t be mad at me!”

Jerry? Jerry fooled him? Jerry Lestrade, really? He must be slipping worse than he thought.

“You gave back the money?” said Sherlock. “And you didn’t think about splitting it with any of us?”

He scoffed.

“You and John haven’t a brain cell between you!” 

“Hey, I am literally sitting on you!” 

John crossed his arms, offended.

“Yes, and you may want to move,” said Sherlock, but he kissed John soundly on the cheek anyway. “Lestrade is making me sick.”

Greg floundered. “Me! You’re the one making a spectacle of yourself. I just want to know if there’s the slightest chance Myc will go to the ball with me!”

“He lets you call him Myc?” 

Sherlock didn’t know what to tell him. 

“Mycroft doesn’t —”

He blundered through his thought process.

Mycroft doesn’t _like_ _people._ What’s the world coming to?

Finally, he just said, “Ask him your bloody self! Leave me out of it!”

He shuddered. The thought of Mycroft _kissing_ someone.

How revolting.

Greg wrinkled his lips, glowering, and sat up from his place on the floor.

“John, you sold me your soul. You promised! Make him,” he jerked his chin towards Sherlock. “Make him call Mycroft for me.”

Sherlock guffawed. “John can’t _make me_ do anything.”

“He’ll phone him by the end of the night.”

“John!”

A slamming bathroom door echoed down the hall before the argument could progress any further. Brett Yang drug his feet toward the common room, clad in nothing but shower flip-flops, a towel around his waist, and another wrapped around his head. He collapsed into the opposite armchair looking defeated.

Eddy spoke first, hesitantly, like you might approach a wounded animal.

“So... I see you’re not dead?”

Brett puffed. “No, I wish I was.” 

He’d embarrassed himself in front of a goddess, a talented violinist, and easily the most fetching woman walking God’s earth. There was nothing for him out there anymore. Brett leaned back spread eagle with a dejected look on his face, his towel dangerously close to falling open. 

Sherlock’s facial muscles twitched and he put his hand over John’s eyes. 

They hadn't been naked together since their relationship began, and he certainly wasn't about to let John ogle someone else.

“Is there a reason you’re so clinically depressed over Hilary Hahn you’ve chosen to wander the halls in the nude?”

“Because I made a damn fool of myself, that’s why.”

“And you’re doing an excellent job of rectifying it.”

John and the other boys shot Sherlock a look that told him to cool it. He mouthed, _Me?_ and motioned towards Brett’s state of undress until Stephen had the decency to cover the man with a blanket. 

“I can never go back to conservatory,” Brett spoke monotonously. “Maybe if I move back to Australia something will kill me.”

“Seems likely,” said Ryan. 

“Come now, it can’t be that awful,” John offered. “Maybe Hilary found the whole thing charming.”

“She didn’t,” said Sherlock before John threw an elbow in his gut. 

He oofed. “What? It’s statistically most likely that she didn’t!” 

Damn all this unspoken social rubbish. 

“Let him speak, John,” Brett deadpanned. “I want him to give it to me straight.”

John flared his nostrils in the same threatening display a frilled dragon might flare its neck flaps.

_Give it to him straight and I will bite you, and not in the manner of which you have grown accustomed. Be nice._

Sherlock sighed. 

“Hilary Hahn is… a woman of high class, refinement. Easily the best violinist on campus, maybe the whole of Southern England. But she can be a bit…”

He wrestled with the words. Nice. He could do nice.

“... aware of it. That being said, she fits the profile of a woman who wants a skilled and respected partner, someone who is an asset to herself. She’s attracted to violinists who can challenge her —”

Which Brett couldn’t. 

“ — but who aren’t better than her. She’s uncomfortable being second best, unused to it. You wouldn't have a problem there.”

The group groaned. 

Leave it to Sherlock to muck it up. 

But Brett didn’t groan. If anything, he looked heartened. 

“Say… Say you’re right! I’ll never be as good as Hilary!”

Sherlock quite agreed. “Your problem is she’s subconsciously attracted to Eddy.” 

Eddy choked on his water bottle, sputtering. “I’m sorry?”

“Yes,” Sherlock continued. “She thinks he’s ‘funny,’” he said making air quotes. “She laughs thirty percent more than everyone else when he talks, quite the feat, actually. She must have a degenerate sense of humor, or it could be that she finds you too serious. You make almost no facial expressions when you play, meanwhile, Chen looks like a hula girl dashboard ornament. She’s always staring at him and licking her lips, suggesting the thought has crossed her mind.”

Brett bolted up out of his chair, buck naked except for the towel that remained on his head. 

“You bastard!” he accused Eddy. 

Sherlock slapped his hand so hard over John’s eyes he knocked him over. 

“Me! I have no truck with Hilary. I’ve nothing to do with her!”

“That’s what he said!”

“I said,” interrupted Sherlock, rubbing John’s face and peppering the red welt with ill-received apology kisses, “that she’s attracted to him _subconsciously._ She likes men with a sense of humor.”

Brett became divinely inspired, an expression like hope blooming across his face. 

“I’ve still got a chance!” he said, snatching up his towel. “Thanks, Sherlock!”

Brett went streaking up the stairs, finally losing the towel atop his head instead of just the one around his waist. 

“Brett’s got the right spirit about this,” said Greg. “I think by the end of the night we should all have dates. How would it look, the rugby lads going stag?”

All the boys made a pained expression.

“It’d show our rugby matches aren’t the only area we’re lacking game,” said Tyler. “I don’t think I could stomach the shame.”

“It’s agreed then: by tonight, we’ll all have someone.”

Ryan and Tyler said they would ask Amanda and Abby from the field hockey team. They were gargantuan, and most men were too intimidated by them to bust a move. The odds of success were higher that way. Eddy said he hadn’t anyone in mind, but one girl would do as well as the next, and Stephen, showing all the nervous signs of a cat in a room full of rocking chairs finally spat out, “Molly Hooper!”

The boys jumped. No one said a word. 

“Are you… asking her or giving birth to her?” Mike laughed.

Stephen pulled his feet out of his shoes and started scratching furiously. 

“Jesus, mate! You’re serving _food_ later!”

“I’ll wash! I can’t help it. I break out in an eczema rash on my confounded feet when I’m nervous.”

“That’s attractive, Stephen.”

He stood up and started hopping about the common room in front of the fireplace, alternating feet as he itched. 

“I really like Molly,” he said, “but she’s been so damn set on Sherlock all these years, I doubt I’ve ever stood a chance.”

John knew Molly liked Sherlock, but he had no idea it was a years-long crush. 

“It’s not like that between Molly and I.”

Stephen stopped hopping long enough to plant both feet on the hardwood and both hands on his hips, looking irritated like a man who knew when he was being lied to.

He had to concede.

“Well, it isn’t like that anymore!” said Sherlock. “Molly’s moved on!” 

All this twaddle about women. How did he, a gay man, keep getting roped into all this twaddle about women? It was absurd!

John examined him closely. “What do you mean ‘not anymore?’” 

“John, please,” said Sherlock, holding up his hand. “This jealousy in you is unbecoming.”

John gaped. 

The indignation of such a man.

He left Sherlock’s lap and took Brett’s place on the opposite armchair, pouting with his arms and legs crossed.

Sherlock felt responsible for Molly, like a less-murderous-than-his-actual baby sister, or perhaps like a boss might feel towards a tolerated assistant. At any rate, he deduced the daylights out of Stephen straight away and determined that he was an alright bloke, if not a little nerdy, shy, and terrified of women due to his tumultuous relationship with his own mother. Molly could easily strong-arm him around. If she wanted to, of course. 

“Are you prepared to do right by Molly?” asked Sherlock. “Speaking from experience, I can tell you it’s no fun being cast aside because your significant other’s mother wouldn’t approve of you.”

Sherlock wished he hadn’t said it, but there was no other way to go about it. He wouldn’t have Molly heartbroken. He didn’t have to look at John to know his phrasing made him uncomfortable. It didn’t matter how many times Sherlock told him he forgave him. John wouldn’t forgive himself.

Stephen turned from the fire looking at Sherlock, the blaze flickering in his eyes. He folded his lips, and, with as much gusto as anyone had ever seen in him, declared, “Molly’s the best girl in all of England, and if my mum can’t see that she can go hang!” 

He marched towards the door, gathering his coat and scarf, and set out against the evening breeze to, they assumed, find Molly and declare himself properly. He slammed the door so hard the panes shuddered. 

“See _that,_ ” pointed Greg, “ _That’s_ the kind of gumption we need!”

“If only he had those kinds of balls on the pitch,” Mike mumbled. 

The boys excused themselves one by one until it was only John and Sherlock sitting across from one another by the fire. John snuggled into the cushions and kicked off his shoes, warming his socks on a nearby footrest. 

“Are we going?” he finally asked. He said it softly like he was shy about it.

Deep lines formed between Sherlock’s eyebrows and his gaze went cloudy.

“What do you mean? Isn’t it a given that we’re going together? Do you not want to?”

“Oh, I want to!” said John, scrambling before he lost control of the situation. “I just mean that you don’t like…”

Dancing?

Sherlock loved that. 

Food?

He was eating more.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Do you mean _people_?” he finished.

John cringed but nodded. He couldn’t contest. “You can’t _stand_ them. You really can't.”

Specifically, he said he couldn’t stand being outnumbered. Made for too much stupid in the room at a single time.

Sherlock became thoughtful, his fingers pressed to his lips in prayer pose. 

“Everything about my current situation stands opposed to the pure cold reason I hold above all things. The Fall Ball is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.”

Jesus.

“But,” he popped on the word, “you want to go, and I would so hate for Kitty to sink her claws in you. I have plans for you as well. Dancing, moonlight, all that romantic rubbish.”

And by romantic rubbish, he meant working himself up to what he'd labeled in his mind palace filing systems as _The Deed._ Never had he been so nerve-wracked. It was like being told to play a violin flawlessly in front of an audience and having only a loose idea of how to play the bloody instrument. 

Sex didn't alarm him. _It didn't._ The stairwell was great. The stairwell _counted._ John said so!

“Kitty Riley has about as much chance with me as I have of stealing an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. You’ve got nothing to worry about," said John.

Sherlock wasn’t so sure. _He’d_ stolen plenty of ashtrays from Buckingham Palace.

“Still,” he said, “I think I’ll go. Look out for my asset.”

“Your asset, huh?

“Stop looking so damned pleased with yourself,” said Sherlock. “I own that asset.”

John blew a raspberry and began to protest when his brain caught up with him. 

The evidence was fairly damning.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth ticked, and he flashed a roguish grin. He glanced around the room and up the stairs as if to make sure they were really alone. When all satisfied him, he kicked off his slippers, padded towards John, looking at him all the while like a lion ready to devour a feast, and said, “You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to have you all to myself.”

He took his arm and swept the coffee table clean, sending vases and coffee cups crashing to the floor.

John had never been so turned off in his life. 

Was Sherlock seriously going to take him for the first time on the common room coffee table? John had no idea he was so kinky.

He swallowed.

“Here? Are you sure? Aren’t there cameras?” asked John, scandalized, but smiling all the same.

“I’m not worried about them,” said Sherlock. “I want you right here.”

And he slowly undid his robe, reached inside, and pulled out a handful of photo negatives.

Sherlock sat at the coffee table and crossed his legs, calmly tapping the neat stack against the table and laying them out in organized rows after each lick of his thumb. 

_Attention: Your John H. Watson 1.0 has stopped working._

Sherlock looked up at him, still sitting slack-jawed in the armchair.

“I said I want you right here, John. Weren’t you listening?”

John was an unhealthy shade of red.

“Come here. I’m worried you’re sitting too close to the fire.”

He scooched over and patted the spot beside him. John licked his lips and joined him, never once making eye contact, and angling his pelvis in a peculiar fashion.

“You remember what I told you about the matchbox camera?” asked Sherlock. “Well, these are the negatives that I sent to Mycroft. I had them blown up. Take a look. Do you notice anything?”

John held the photos up to the light, studying them like his life depended on it and grateful for any distraction to take his mind off of the previous situation.

“They’re all female athletes,” he said, “and they’re all wearing compression gear if they’re wearing anything at all.”

“Exactly!” said Sherlock.

“So what? Our stalker really is a pervert?”

“No, no, no!” Sherlock whacked him over the head with a photograph. “You’re backsliding!”

“Jesus! What? So he’s only turned on by women with compression bandages and back injuries?”

“If you’d take your head out of the gutter for a moment,” said Sherlock, “you’d find your amended statement bang on! Don’t you see? The tight bandages, the numbing cream, the photos being almost all of girls with known injuries of the back and waist. He wasn’t peeping, he was looking for a target, someone he could stab in the back, literally, who wouldn’t feel it, or at most would think it was mere muscle or skeletal discomfort. Agatha fit the bill, but it could have just as easily been Molly. He stabbed the girl with a small knife, adjusted her bandage subtly, then, when he was gone trucking an alibi somewhere, the girl removed her clothes and let the blood flow, bleeding out in the showers. It's borderline genius! He wasn’t stalking the field hockey team exclusively. He was searching for potential victims.”

“So the makeup and the wig,” thought John, “it was a man dressing as a woman to get a better look at the girls? Does that mean we really do have a practicing serial killer on our hands? It’ll be hard to figure without a motive.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, holding his chin in his hand. “But we’ve a few leads to follow. We’ll scope out the physical therapist’s office, check with the history department to see if any Cold War cameras have been stolen, and if nothing else, we can ask around the photography club and see what they know. I already viewed the security cameras and interviewed the annual staff. No one in their pictures was even close to Agatha. I don’t know when anyone would have had an opportunity to stab her, and without her noticing it must have been someone she knew.”

“Can we narrow our suspects down to Kipling Hall?”

“It’s the most likely home of our would-be killer, but we’re in the early stages. Best not to rule anything out.”

Sherlock leaned over and whispered in John’s ear, “By the way, I _saw_ that.”

John burned. 

“I had no idea public sex was something you wanted, John. Really. How dreadfully naughty. And people say _I'm_ the wicked one in this relationship.”

God, just kill him now. John might as well have stepped into the fire because the temperature change wouldn't have been all that much.

Sherlock only laughed and kissed him on the ear (the rest of his face was hidden in his hands) before shooting to his feet, stomping his foot down and the coffee table and popping his bathrobe collar dramatically. 

“What? Did you think it was going to be all romance and fun times now? We’ve got an attempted murder to solve! Come now,” he wrapped his arm around John’s waist and carried him sideways up the stairs. “The game is on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever posted a chapter and been like, "Geez, I really hope I don't regret this, like, ever," and then realize you can't run for public office anymore? No?
> 
> Oh, well. 
> 
> Hope you liked!


	20. Shoot Your Shot and Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter in which John and Sherlock are the only functioning romance in the place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light the Night was an event they used to have at my university and it was the highlight of the year.

“John, let’s not leave the room. Let’s spend the whole evening in bed.”

“You know, from anyone else, that would probably sound romantic.”

The boys lay pressed together in their usual spot on the bottom bunk, cocooned beneath layers and layers of fuzzy blankets with a pot of oolong steaming on the bedside table. A space heater hummed in the far corner, but it wasn’t enough to stave off John’s cold nature, especially since his favorite jumper, the one he always slept in, had mysteriously disappeared.

John was little-spooning it, his bare back pressed against Sherlock’s warm chest, and wondering how he could have misplaced something so important. His lover rested his chin on top of his head, staring daggers at what John dubbed the murder wall. 

Sometimes he threw daggers at it too.

John considered it an extension of purgatory for leaving Sherlock alone, and every day it spread, consuming the room in crime scene photographs, crude drawings of various stiletto knives, and ideas sprawled across napkins, flashcards, and random pages of history homework (the only class Sherlock was failing because it was too boring to learn even temporarily). A spray-painted smiley face held the last bare spot.

“Sherlock, you’ve been glaring at the murder wall for the last two hours. Let’s just go to the festival already and call it a night.”

“No. Besides, you’ll catch your death. We’re indoors and you’re shivering.”

John patted his hand. His worry, while cute, was unnecessary. 

“Case number twelve. We were trapped in a meat locker and you didn’t care then.”

“Yes, I did! I bundled you up in my bloody coat, didn’t I?”

He had, but not without complaining that John was stretching the lining, something bound to happen since they were both wearing it at the same time, huddled for warmth. John remembered it fondly.

“I promise, after the festival, we can go investigate Kipling Hall. Maybe we’ll even turn up something new. Cover the blank space.”

Sherlock shrugged off the blankets and pulled a paintball gun from under the pillow.

“Damn this case,” he said, standing and firing behind his back, under his leg, and from a handstand in an impressive display of both precision and acrobatics. The smiley face oozed yellow paint, but John would scrape it off tomorrow. 

A little violence always made Sherlock feel better. 

“Can I try that?

Sherlock handed John the gun and adjusted his aim. He held down the trigger until the ammo ran out. “That’s like a machine gun,” he grumbled, tossing it on the rug. “Why do you even have one of those anyway?”

Sherlock took one of the blankets off the bed and draped it around John’s shoulders. 

“Because Mycroft confiscated my real ones, that’s why.” He tilted John’s chin and kissed him before turning to dig through the drawers. He’d gone through and completely dismantled the sock index, rearranging it into sections like  _ Cold, Blisteringly Cold, My Boyfriend is an Iguana,  _ and the aptly named  _ Going Out Against My Will So You Might As Well Look Nice _ category. 

He threw John jeans, gloves, and blue socks and a matching hoodie before shooting his underwear at him like a rubber band. 

“Ouch! You popped me in the arse!”

“I never miss.”

Sherlock turned his back while John dressed and mumbled something about stretching the elastic.

“I don’t see why I have to have matching socks,” John complained. “I _ can  _ dress myself.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not well. If I have to behave, then you have to dress nice. It’s called,” he motioned with his hand, “growth. Can I turn around now?”

“You don’t  _ have  _ to turn around at all.”

Sherlock went through his own clothing and dressed as usual from the waist down. However, he forgo his pressed button-downs and instead wore a long, black jumper with white and red diamonds knitted from the neck to the chest and with the pattern continued around the sleeves. It was frizzy, the fabric overwashed and pilling up in lint balls all over.

He strutted in front of John.

“How do I look? Isn’t it perfectly hideous?”

John gaped. “Hideous! That’s my favorite jumper! You said you didn’t know where it was.”

“I lied.”

The blood vein in John’s forehead throbbed. 

“I can see that, dear, but may I ask why?”

Sherlock whipped his phone out of his coat pocket and scrolled to an online relationship column. 

“According to Angela Webb, a psychologist respected in her field, wearing one another’s clothes in same-sex relationships can lead to increased bonding.”

John pushed the phone out of his face. 

“Babe, if we were any more bonded I'd have to perform surgery. You don’t need to read that rubbish. Besides, only annoying couples wear each other’s clothes.”

“Then I guess we’re an annoying couple now.”

“But I’m not wearing your clothes.”

Sherlock quirked a brow and smirked. 

John looked down at his outfit. He wasn’t wearing a single thing that didn’t belong to him. 

Unless…

He pulled down his jeans and tugged at his boxer briefs. 

“William Sherlock—!”

“Better get a move on, darling,” Sherlock cut, already halfway out the door. “Wouldn’t want to keep the lads waiting.” He slapped the frame on the way out.

_ “Jesus, Mary,” _ John cursed under his breath. He flipped up his hood and resisted the urge to laugh. Best not to encourage any of his boyfriend’s less savory experiments no matter how ridiculous they were. He grabbed his wallet and jogged out the door, trying and failing to look sufficiently annoyed.

________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock and John walked down International Row with their elbows interlinked and their hands in their pockets. They bustled through greasy steam clouds hovering in the night air and were bombarded by the scent sizzling of gyros and bubbling coffees. The whole lawn looked like a Turkish bazaar, bursting with color and languages John had never heard before. He insisted on stopping at every tent and at one point even got Sherlock to stand still long enough for the Saudi students to henna tattoo his name on his hand in Arabic. 

“Isn’t this the coolest!” John took his phone out and snapped a picture of the two of them holding up their hands. “You even smiled! I have photographic evidence!”

Sherlock looped his arm around John and put his unmarked hand in the hoodie pocket.

“If you don’t stop eating you’ll not have room to take a side in the Australian/Indian war.”

“But I might miss something! You speak all of these languages, so this is probably old hat to you, but I’ve never been anywhere. Is that how you learned, by the way? Did your parents take you abroad?”

John looked up smiling so wide it should have been physically impossible. Sherlock didn’t want to spoil the mood, but he also didn’t want to lie to him. 

“My mum and dad don’t leave Musgrave Hall much.”

“Where’s that?” asked John.

Sherlock smiled, happy to have changed the subject so fast.

“Musgrave Hall is my home. Holmeses have always lived there. I don’t suppose that you’d want to… Well, you probably couldn’t. Your mum might ask too many questions, but what I’m trying to ask is do you think you might want to stay? With me? At Musgrave Hall over the Christmas holiday?” 

If John felt him tense, he didn’t act like he noticed.

“Really? That would be awesome! I’d love to see where you live. Could I meet your parents?” John suddenly realized what he was saying. “I mean, they wouldn’t have a problem with it, would they? You know, with us?”

Sherlock wanted to erase the anxious expression from John’s face straight away. He knew enough about Cynthia Watson. A staunch Catholic, a pushy mother that somehow still managed to raise latchkey children, unbending and uncompromising, but John loved her. Loved her enough to fear her. Did he think all parents were like that, that the way she held her love over him like a bargaining chip was healthy? 

He wouldn’t have it.

“My parents don’t have a problem with it at all.” He squeezed John’s hand. “In fact, they’ll love you.” 

And they would. They’d be thrilled their little problem was human enough to love someone, but for all their faults, Sherlock knew he couldn’t lose their love, even if the way they showed it was pretty fucking worthless. After all, Eurus murdered a child in their backyard and tortured Sherlock into the wee hours of the morning, and they still loved her. They even went to visit her, which was more than they did for him.

“I’ll be honest with you though,” said Sherlock. “My mother and father didn’t do much of my raising. They were too busy with…”

He couldn’t say sister. John would  _ ask _ if he said sister.

“...keeping the estate. My actual mother is more like Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“My housekeeper,” explained Sherlock.

John choked on his churro. “ _ The _ housekeeper? The  _ teach-you-to-drive-like-a-Florida-stuntman, gave-you-your-first-blunt-when-you-were-thirteen _ housekeeper?”

“The very same.”

John laughed so hard Sherlock had to lug him off the sidewalk. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely drawing breath. “It’s just, that explains so much doesn’t it?”

John wiped away a tear. “Are they like you?” he asked. “Super smart, able to deduce me to tears?”

“I never deduced you to tears.”

John just wouldn’t let the parent thing go. 

“Are they?”

Sherlock sighed and extricated himself from John, stepping away.

“My family, aside from Mycroft—” 

He wasn’t going to mention Eurus. He’d sooner die than talk about her with John. 

She poisoned everything she touched.

“—they aren’t like me. People say my mother is a genius, but she’s just a mathematician. She works for the Department of Astronomy and Space Exploration.”

“ _ Just _ ,” John drolled. 

“My father doesn’t do anything. Never has. Holmeses have a vast and noble history, but nothing in Mycroft’s files suggest we ever had any intellectual prowess in the past. One ancestor of ours even accidentally fired on his own troops during one of the English civil wars.”

Sherlock shuddered. 

“I didn’t give a good goddamn about history after that. Imagine, proof floating about that  _ Holmeses  _ can be stupider than  _ Andersons.  _ The shame of it.”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted John, “did you say Mycroft has a file?”

“Yep,” popped Sherlock. “My mother has a lot to answer for.”

They started walking again, but not before Sherlock suddenly jerked him aside and said, “Harry.”

“Harry?” John asked.

“Would she like me? Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care for your mother and I won’t pretend that I do, but Harry, she’s always looked out for you. If you’re worried about my parents' approval, don’t. Worry about Mrs. Hudson’s, and in the meantime, I’ll worry about Harry’s. Is that… okay?”

John pulled Sherlock down and kissed him. 

“Harry,” he broke away, his heavy breaths a cloud in the air, “will adore you. When I told her about us I thought she was going to burst my eardrums. She couldn’t be happier. Don’t get me wrong, she thinks you’re a psychopath, completely crazy—”

“Sociopath,” Sherlock mumbled.

“But,” John carried on, “she says all the good ones are.”

John shrugged. “I have to agree.”

Sherlock fixed on the ground, smiling stupidly. “I always liked your sister. Pity she didn’t turn out to be a man.”

“ _ Sherlock _ ,” John warned.

“What? I’m only kidding.”

The boys waded through crowds of students watching traditional dances, buying tickets for foreign films on the lawns, and waiting for the rides to open. John stopped at nine different carnival games before he finally managed to win Sherlock a stuffed goat at a shootout. Sherlock said he shouldn’t have done it and what in God’s name would he do with a goat? But John explained it was what boyfriends do on dates and that he had to put his skill with the paintball gun to good use somehow, and so Sherlock vowed by the end of the night he would win something for John as well. 

They made it to the far side of Aiken House before they found the lads. Why the school put an Australian barbeque across from Stephen’s vegetarian phaal curry stand no one would ever know, but Sherlock suspected it had something to do with Eddy interning in the office and therefore having the power to manipulate little things the administration would never notice. 

They were hot at it, slinging spatulas and tongs and knives with reckless abandon. Whatever Stephen was cooking required a wok, and every so often flames would jump over the dish. Brett and Eddy’s stand had it all: fish, prawns, burgers, ribs, and of course, steaks. Brett and Eddy talked about them all week. It’s just nobody expected them to be so big.

“God almighty!” Mike exclaimed when Brett slapped a bleeding steak as thick as a phone book on his paper plate. “What in the blazing hells is this?”

“It’s a cow,” said Brett.

“A fine Aussie cow,” chimed Eddy. “My mum shipped them all the way from Brisbane.”

“A lot of cows running around Brisbane then?” said Stephen. “You don’t want to eat that mush, John. This is a man’s food right here. This will put hair on your chest.”

“And burn it right off!” Eddy flew around the grill holding a juicy, dripping, cheesy burger in his hands. It smelled divine. “John, my good mate, you don’t want heartburn for the rest of your natural life, do you? Here, eat the meat, pal of mine.”

“No!” said Stephen, rounding his own grill. “Listen, I made up some raita just for you, mate. It’ll cut the heat, I promise you. What do you want to go eating this murder meal for anyway?”

“Murder!” snapped Brett. “You can come off that high horse right now because I saw you eating a chicken sandwich at McDonald’s just the other day!”

“Fallen off the veggie wagon again, hey Stephen? Can’t resist, can you?”

“It wasn’t chicken! It wasn’t, it wasn’t, it wasn’t!” stomped Stephen. “It was tofu, goddamnit!”

“I didn’t know the yellow arches were on to that yet.”

They bickered back and forth, fanning their food beneath John’s nose till his mouth was absolutely dripping with drool, but he was in a bad situation. The unspoken rule was whoever won John won the night. If he picked Stephen, Brett and Eddy would never forgive him, but if he picked the Taiwanese Aussies, Stephen would walk around with hurt feelings for the rest of the year. He couldn’t go one way or the other without upsetting anybody.

Finally, Sherlock intervened. 

“If I may, gentlemen,” he began, moving John from the line of fire. “Watson is no prize.”

“Hey!”

Sherlock pressed on, merely patting the man on the head and handing him his goat. 

“John will eat anything. I doubt a man with his palate could tell the difference between a bottle of Cote de Nuits and a box wine from Tesco. I, on the other hand, hardly eat anything. Nothing is ever up to my standard. Altogether, if you’re going to compete over a more competent judge, it should be me.”

The boys thought over it. 

“By Jove, he’s onto something, isn’t he? If a man can impress Sherlock Holmes he can impress anyone.”

“Except for John,” said Eddy. “Sherlock’s impressed with him and I can’t see the big appeal.”

“Oh, shut it! Sherlock,” Brett stuck out his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Now let’s wrap this up quick. Hilary will come round any second and I’ve got some jokes I’ve gotta lay on her.”

“Please don’t,” sighed Stephen, but he shook Sherlock’s hand as well.

Sherlock tried both dishes, criticizing Brett and Eddy first with all the savagery of Gordon Ramsey picking apart a food truck. 

“You have not served me a steak, but an overweight kangaroo. My children will be through university before I finish chewing the fat on this rubbish. And you,” he pointed to Brett. “This burger is much the same way. My left ventricle clogged after a single bite. John,” he snapped, “we’ll have to get married straight away so I can add you as a beneficiary on my life insurance policy. My chances of survival are that dismal, and if the fat alone didn’t kill me the bacteria would. Look at this! Still pink in the middle!”

“It’s supposed to be!” said Brett.

At least John didn’t have to worry about people being mad at  _ him. _

“It is if you’re looking for lawsuits!”

Sherlock shot up and threw down his napkin in outrage. He waltzed over to Stephen’s stall and snatched up a bowl. 

Stephen flailed. “No, Sherlock, wait! Not that one!”

“Why?” he asked. “Reserving only the best? Giving John special treatment? That’s no way to compete.”

“No, that isn’t it. That’s phaal curry! That’s the one with the —”

Sherlock tipped the bowl in his mouth and shoveled it in with a spoon. 

“— ghost pepper.”

The boys and John looked on in awe. Sherlock seemed totally unfazed. Only John could tell that something was really wrong because Sherlock wasn’t talking. 

“Amazing,” said Stephen. “I don’t believe it. I’ve never seen anyone —”

But it didn’t last long, because Sherlock bounded over the grill and went digging through the cooler, shoving ice cubes in his mouth. Brett and Eddy busted up so bad they didn’t even feel angry anymore. John wasn’t doing any better. He laughed so hard he thought he was going to piss himself. 

Sherlock was scalding red from the neck up, his eyes streaming. John couldn’t stop pointing and holding his ribs. He had just enough of his senses about him to take out his phone for a video when Sherlock pushed it aside, took him in a low dip, and snogged him.

With tongue.

Suddenly it wasn’t so funny anymore because  _ holy hell his mouth was on fire! _

The two of them chugged bottle after bottle of water, till they were reduced to fighting over Stephen’s raita and accidentally pouring it over themselves and their coats. 

Stephen and the Aussies videoed the whole thing. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, Conan’s cutest couple award goes to these dumb bitches right here!”

“They both deserve it like they deserve each other.”

“Oh, piss off!” John managed to say, but it sounded like a rasp, like he had charbroiled vocal cords. If he felt this bad, Sherlock had to be in misery. 

“How you holding up, babe?” he patted Sherlock on the back. His head was still in the cooler. 

He popped out spitting a mouthful of ice cubes. He looked like a chipmunk.

“Still think my palate’s shit?”

“Still cold? I can rectify that in a moment.”

Greg walked in on the bizarre situation looking down at his own mobile. 

“Evening,” he greeted and held out the screen. “I just saw the funniest thing on Stephen’s Snapchat story…”

________________________________________________________________________________

The boys sat together under the Australia tent squinting into the distance. Every so often they cocked their heads to the right, then the left, and more than that they cringed.

Eddy couldn’t bear to look.

“Just tell me when it’s over,” he said, shielding his eyes with a spatula while a burger caught aflame. 

“It’s… like a terrible car accident,” John said. “Awful, gruesome, but I just can’t look away.” 

“Do you think he knows he’s doing it?” Sherlock asked. “I never know when I’m fucking up.”

“Oh, he knows it,” Greg resorted to his police binoculars. “He’d have to be blind not to. Just look at her face.”

“The poor woman.” 

Stephen proposed they cause a distraction, but it was too late.

The longer Brett talked, the more uneasy Hilary Hahn looked, like a rat in the throes of desperation ready to chew off its own leg as a means of escape. 

“What the hell could he be saying?”

“Probably best we don’t know,” said Mike. “It looks too painful to listen.”

And it must have been, for no sooner had Mike observed than Hilary Hahn’s jaw dropped in indignation, and she shoved a chocolate eclair right in Brett’s face before storming away. The boys let out a pained hiss.

There’s no coming back from something that bad.

“Jesus, at least someone’s having a worse night than me,” Stephen said. “At least Molly was nice about it.”

Sherlock and John perked.

“What do you mean?” asked John.

Stephen sighed and flung down his apron. “Molly… has a boyfriend.”

A boyfriend? Sherlock didn’t know anything about a boyfriend. He looked at John who only shrugged. 

“And he gives me the fucking creeps!” Eddy interjected. “He’s got these beady little eyes that dart around like he could snap,” he illustrated with his fingers, “at any frickin’ moment.”

Sherlock became concerned. “Who is he?”

“James something,” said Stephen. “She said they met when she went to IT for computer troubles. He hasn’t asked her to the ball yet, but she thinks it's because he’s shy.”

“Shyer than Stephen my arse,” said Eddy. “I met the guy. He reminds me of the blokes you see on those Saturday night specials who turn their wives into shoes. Creepy as hell, that one.”

Sherlock stood up. 

“We should find Molly,” he told John. “She became my friend during our time apart and I believe there’s a certain honor pact I’m supposed to uphold where we watch each other’s backs.”

“Woah, woah, woah, settle down there,” said Greg, pointing at the table. “You can go play big brother later, but right now you’re needed right here.”

“Me? What can I do?”

“Right now we lads are batting two for zero. Stephen’s tucked tail, Brett would need divine intervention to get near Hilary Hahn again, and Eddy hasn’t even tried.”

“Hey, neither have you!” said Eddy.

“Exactly! Sherlock,” said Greg, “I need you to call Mycroft.”

Sherlock groaned. He looked at his boyfriend for help, but no dice.

“Why does it have to be  _ Mycroft?” _ said Sherlock.

“Well, why does yours have to be John?”

He had him there. 

“Fine!” spat Sherlock. “But don’t blame me if he’s a complete git about it.”

Sherlock dialed the phone and put it on speaker. Mycroft answered faster than he expected.

“Hello, brother mine. So nice of you to call. And what police station might you be interned at this time?”

Sherlock dropped his head on the table.

“It’s nice to speak with you as well.”

The line paused. 

“It isn't like you to call without motive, baby brother, so let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Am I to expect a happy announcement from you and John by the end of the week. 

The boys fought to hold in a snicker, except for John, who stopped shivering and turned pink. 

“There’s a dance coming up at school, Mycroft. I was wondering if you’d like to go.”

“Me? That’s a laugh. A school dance? Even if I had a worthwhile reason to go…”

Everyone looked up at Lestrade. He was looking a little green.

“...can you imagine? The noise, the conversation, the —”

Mycroft couldn’t think of a word nasty enough.

“The  _ people.  _ God, why would I ever want to attend something as stupid and nonsensical as that? Isn’t it bad enough I had to dance the zwiefacher with Angela Merkel last month?” 

He scoffed.

“Woman has the feet of Clydesdale.”

Sherlock, seeing the hurt look on Lestrade's face, tried to backtrack the conversation. 

“But let’s say you did have a worthwhile reason to go,” said Sherlock. “Let’s say someone you really liked asked you. Someone like…”

Christ.

What was his name?  _ What was his name? _

“Graham Lestrade! What if he asked you?”

Mycroft paused.

“Oh, I see. So you’ve found out another spy, have you? Don’t worry, Sherlock. After all, they’re all disposable, aren’t they? Nothing more than mayflies. I can always find another.”

Greg pushed away from the table and stalked off in the opposite direction. The boys looked at one another like they couldn’t decide which one of them ought to go after him, but then, what would they say?

“Is this conversation at its end yet, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice echoed from the phone.

Sherlock picked up the phone. “Yep, I’d say it’s at its end alright.” 


	21. Sugar, Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. Like, where to begin?
> 
> Another piece of Molly's meek personality chips away; Sherlock and John have a heart to heart; Sherlock discovers John sold his guitar, but an attack keeps him from returning to him; Miss Hudson takes her new son-in-law on a spin in the Aston Martin; and finally, Greg reveals Sherlock's weird pet name for John when a high as shit Sherlock lets the cat out of the bag; John finds out about the crack skeleton in the closet.

James wasn’t a bad shot, thought Molly, as she watched her date knock over five bottle towers in a row. The carnie in charge of the stand looked annoyed, but handed them a stuffed elephant without complaint. Still, when Molly looked over her shoulder, she saw him inspecting the bases of the bottles like he didn’t know what to make of it.

James wasn’t a bad looking bloke either. He had a lean body. Not as thin as Sherlock’s, but not as thick as John’s. Except for the greased back hair and the dark, almost purple indents under his eyes as if he never slept or went into the sunlight, James Wheatley was perfectly average. 

What was odd, Molly thought, was how he dressed for the weather.

James wore a short-sleeve V neck so thin it was almost see-through, and his jeans were low enough to show his bright green underwear. He didn’t act cold. In fact, his hands were sweaty. Molly had to think of excuses like pointing and gaping at colorful displays just to wipe the moisture from her palm. She didn’t _want_ to hold James’s hand, but as she’d learned earlier, he could be dangerous, and so she kept up her facade.

Molly wasn’t keen on James to begin with, but when he asked her out, he’d seemed so alone. She’d been like that before, back when she spent long hours in the biology and chemistry labs pining after Sherlock Holmes, back before field hockey gave her another way to vent her aggression. 

James had aggression. She could tell by the way he played carnival games that he was a man who didn’t like to lose, and when she asked, he blamed his fine motor skills on video games, saying they helped with hand-eye coordination. But it was more than that. 

Eddy Chen saw it too. He took Molly aside before the festival began, before she and James went to dinner at Angelo’s, and gave her a good chewing out. 

“It’s none of your business!” she’d told him.

Molly liked Eddy’s friend, Stephen Goalla, and preferred him. He had kind eyes and a coarse beard, and everything about him was warm, from his toothy grin to his sun-kissed skin and subtle sense of humor. They’d worked together on Operation: Gemini, but no matter how she hinted, he never showed any interest. He looked almost scared of her, and Molly was through with waiting for uninterested men, so when James asked her out, she said yes.

“It’s none of my business if you end up putting lotion on your skin while this guy calls you an ‘it’ in his jacked-up murder basement?”

Molly had rolled her eyes at him. “Eddy, this isn’t _Silence of the Lambs.”_

“Well, someone should tell you that! One moment you’re gung-ho for Sherlock Holmes, a man easily confused for a murderer, and the next you off with this barmy nutter. There’s something not right about him, Hoops. Can’t you feel it?”

“You don’t know him! You just want me to go out with Stephen.”

“It’s not just that! Can’t you tell there’s something off?”

Eddy, who was never serious about anything except violin and Paganini, looked at her with such a straight and somber face she almost faltered, but she wouldn’t admit it. Eddy had to be wrong.

James _liked_ her. James had the gumption to ask her out, to collect her at her dorm and buy her dinner. So far, he hadn’t given her reason not to like or trust him back. He was just shy, she said, and so she shouldered past Eddy without a backward glance. 

She regretted it as soon as they arrived at the restaurant. Little things gave him away. The way he smiled at another student named Seb just a second too long, the way he zoned out and didn’t volunteer information, and the perturbed way he looked at her when she asked how he was finding Conan since he was new two months into the year. He became furious when she mentioned Mary, her roommate, and something sinister when she declined to talk about Sherlock Holmes.

There _was_ something off about James Wheatley. 

The server at Angelo’s was horrid, but obviously still in training and suffering first-day jitters. Molly didn’t utter a word when her meal was mixed up or even when her drink arrived with a lemon wedge on the side. Molly was allergic and pushed the glass away, gently mentioning the problem to see what James would do about it. He did nothing until his own food arrived. It was fettuccine alfredo, not chicken spaghetti, and he stood up and flung the plate right over the server's head, screaming the whole time about rudeness and embarrassing him in front of his pretty date. 

Molly leaped up and apologized to the server, which made James flash her a look like he wanted to cut her with the broken shards. 

They left without eating. 

The whole time Molly kept thinking, “What in God’s name am I still doing with this man? I need to _leave_ ,” but she didn’t want to let on that she had no control of the situation, and kept grasping at straws that James could be misunderstood. Yet in all her time with Sherlock, the definition of misunderstood, he’d never once behaved _violently._ Rude, yes, but threatening? The incident with Kitty Riley was the closest he’d ever come to snapping, but based on what Molly saw of that, he wasn’t too far out of line. 

Molly told herself she would act normal, sweet even, and wait until she was with friends. When she could, she’d ditch James and block his calls. She’d never have to see him again. Maybe if she was lucky, Stephen wouldn’t have asked someone else to the Fall Ball. 

Molly searched through the crowd for her team, but to no avail. She looked for an opportunity to text someone, but James won her large prizes and had _her_ carry them. He’d also stopped letting go of her hand. 

They stopped in front of a stand selling French pastries. Molly insisted that she didn’t want anything, that she wasn’t feeling well, trying to create a plausible excuse for running away later.

“I don’t want an eclair, James, really. I just want to go home.”

She wished Eliza Hardgrave would look up, but she was speaking bitterly with Dorian at their stand.

“We haven’t even seen your friends yet,” said James, sweet and shy like he had before, but now she knew better. “Wouldn’t you like to see your friends?” 

_I’m certainly endeavoring to,_ thought Molly. 

“I could call them if you’d just —”

“No need,” said Sherlock, rounding the corner with John in tow. Neither of them looked pleased, and Molly recognized Sherlock’s angry-faked smile. 

_He knows,_ she thought, and she’d never been happier to see him. 

“Sherlock, John!” she dropped the prizes at her feet and ripped her hand from James’s slippery grasp. She threw herself in John’s arms and hugged him. 

James scowled at the prizes on the ground. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, _baby?”_

Sherlock and John tensed like he’d struck a nerve. 

James didn’t wait for Molly to introduce them. He shoved his hands in his pockets, tugging his jeans even lower.

“Hi, I’m James Wheatley, Molly’s boyfriend.”

Before Molly could correct that he _wasn’t_ her boyfriend, Sherlock deduced him.

“Gay.”

“What?” asked Molly and John in unison. 

Sherlock scratched his lip. “I mean, hey.”

If Molly weren’t so distressed by James, John would have made Sherlock apologize. It was one of the things they were working on, not reflexively outing people he didn’t like. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Molly,” said James, appraising Sherlock.

 _Checking him out,_ Molly realized. 

“I’m quite the fan.” 

That bastard! Seb at the restaurant, Sherlock now, it all made sense. 

“You took me on the date from hell just so you could meet _Sherlock_?”

With the boys backing her, she had nothing to fear.

“You manipulative arsehole!”

“Quite,” grunted Sherlock. 

“Woah, back it up a moment,” said John, now restraining Molly instead of holding her. “How can you tell he’s gay?”

“Tinted eyebrows, women’s facial cream on the potential wrinkle lines of his face, product in his hair—”

“Because he wears a bit of product in his hair?” John said. “ _I_ wear product in _my_ hair!”

Sherlock and Molly slowly turned towards John. Even James gave him the side-eye.

Whoops. 

He’d forgotten.

Funny how “gay” really isn’t all that important a label when you’re with the person you love.

John blushed, rubbing at his sandy hair. “Oh, um, right then. Still getting used to the... Reversing the brainwashing and all that.” He cleared his throat. “Please continue.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said, “aside from the bit of product, the most damning evidence of all is his underwear.”

Molly saw John subtly look down at his own pants.

“They’re visible above the waistline. Very visible. That and the brand.”

John twisted around and looked at the tag on his pants. Molly tapped him on the shoulder and turned him back around.

Reversing the brainwashing, indeed.

James purred at the accusation. “My, you do know how to get a man’s motor running, don’t you? But enough of this flirting, Sherlock. Daddy’s had enough now.” 

He curled his lips, licking them in a manner that was supposed to be seductive.

It only reminded Molly of a snake.

“No wonder this little one is so infatuated with you. Smart is the new sexy.”

James took out a cigarette — Sherlock’s brand — and offered him a smoke.

He declined. 

“I keep up with you, Mr. Holmes,” said James, shaking the flame from a match. “Everyone does on your little pet’s blog. Only I hear about the things he doesn’t write, like how he’s too ashamed of you to claim you in front of his mother. He doesn’t think you’re worth the risk.”

Molly felt John go rigid at her side. He let her go.

“But me? No, I would never be ashamed of you, Sherlly.” James walked up to Sherlock and put his hand on his cheek just like John had done a week prior, but Sherlock didn’t nuzzle into it. He didn’t move at all. James’s eyes lingered on his lips.

It made John’s blood boil. 

“In fact,” he ran his finger across Sherlock’s cupid’s bow. “I would have you right here. On this table. With everyone watching _._ You like that, don’t you? An audience, just like you had with baby doll here.”

John swept Molly aside and started for James, but Molly dug her fingernails into his wrist and held him back. She didn’t know why. James deserved a beatdown, but something confident about the way he spoke told her it wasn’t a good idea. He was calm, almost like he wanted John to hit him. He was so different from the man who’d asked her out.

“Hmm,” James observed. “Did I strike a nerve, Johnny boy? It must hurt knowing not only are you not good enough for Sherlock, but you’re also not good enough for Mummy. Without those little friends of yours, you never would have won him back. You’re not hardly clever enough.”

James stepped forward into John’s personal space. 

“You’re just something to impress, something prosaic, ordinary _._ When he gets bored of you, he’ll leave you. You’ll regret it. What will you do then without a family or a Holmes to follow?”

Sherlock stepped between the two boys and shoved James into the street. He knocked over a pyramid of bowls filled with Rangoli powders, burying himself in a stormcloud of rainbow-colored dust. 

“He’ll never have to know,” said Sherlock, “because I’m never leaving him. We made a vow.” He looked over his shoulder at John, smirking determinedly. “It’s me and him, _baby,_ till the end of the line.”

He took John’s hand and pressed Molly forward. 

“I trust you won’t be wanting any of that rubbish?” asked Sherlock, nodding to the prizes already well behind them. 

“Not a chance!” said Molly. She trotted alongside the boys. 

She saw John’s knuckles paled against Sherlock’s. He was trembling. Molly knew about John’s little shakes, but she’d never seen them this bad. 

That fucker James. 

John was a good man, a good friend. He’d defended her since day one and she wasn’t about to let him down.

Molly ran back and snatched one of the aluminum bowls off the sidewalk, flinging pink Rangoli all over herself before bringing the bowl down with the clang of a gong right over James Wheatley’s head. He fell flat over with a poof in the dust.

Her chest heaved.

“That felt good,” she said, flicking a bit of powder in the wind. “I should have clobbered him ages ago.”

If this was what revenge felt like, Molly’d pick fights more often. 

A smile played at the edge of John’s lips, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. 

“You go on, Molly,” said Sherlock. “You’ll find Stephen and the rest of the lads in front of Aiken House. You can see them or go inside and rest. Just text us so we know you’re alright.”

He leaned around. “Though judging by the state of your date, I’d say you'll be just fine.”

Molly nodded, looking back only once to make sure James was still buried under Rangoli, and then ran all the way to the lads.

________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock bribed John’s way to the head of every line, putting him on one rickety, ill-inspected deathtrap after the other. He thought it would do him good, doing something to burn off the fight or flight response, but it only seemed to make things worse.

He searched until he found a secluded place, a burnt-out fire pit glowing with embers, and pulled him close.

“You’re upset,” he said, resting his hand in John’s hair. “I don’t know how to fix it. Did I handle it wrong? Do you want me to go back and deck him? He can’t be that hard to track, considering he’s snowing the rainbow right about now...”

“It isn’t you, Sherlock.”

“Then what? What can I do?”

John pushed him away and sat down on a rock. He threw a log into the fire and poked at it with a stick until the flames grew. 

Sherlock sat beside him.

John spoke quietly. “Why’d you let that guy paw at you?” 

He didn’t sound angry, but self-conscious, almost resigned to an unspoken fact.

“Is it because… maybe you are bored of me?”

Sherlock’s fondness for John had made him blind. He realized that now. He’d forgotten what spectacular idiot he’d chosen.

All was silent for a moment, nothing but crackling tinder and the far off sound of chatter, and then people at fifty paces heard him exclaim, “ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

“You,” his voice hitched, “are a moron, John Watson.”

Sherlock stood up and threw an acorn into the fire.

“Unlike you, I don’t strike until after I’ve summed up my opponent. I wanted to see how far he’d take it, how unhinged he was, and I was correct. Anyone who can’t see how desperately in love with you I am is insane, and apparently, you’re in the same category. Oh, don’t look at me like that! I’ve always known you were slow-witted. What I didn’t know is that you were mental!”

He knelt before John. 

“Nothing about you is boring. Nothing. I wish I could tell you…”

He thought of all the drugs he _hadn’t_ done. He wouldn’t make it a week without John, and come to think of it, he hadn’t. He didn’t want to be a machine anymore. He didn’t want to be a junkie. 

He didn’t want John to find out.

“I wish I could tell you how much better you make my life, how _not bored_ I am because of you, but I don’t know how. I shouldn’t have let him talk to you, but let a maniac monologue long enough and you’ll find out everything you need to know. He’s _threatened_ by you, and he should be. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Sherlock,” John clenched his eyes shut. “All that stuff he said about my mum, can you honestly say it doesn’t bother you?” 

He looked at him now, pleading. 

“Tell me the truth. It doesn’t bother you that I have to lie about you, hide you, especially after I made such a big deal out of it? If I were half a man I would call her right now. I _will_ call her right now. _”_

John pulled out his phone, but Sherlock closed his hand around it. 

“Don’t. You’re upset. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be! You’re the greatest thing in my life and I’m not ashamed of you!”

“I know,” Sherlock soothed him, taking both of John’s hands. “I know. But you need her. She’s your legal guardian. She can take you away from Conan, away from me. If she’s anything like you, Mycroft might have trouble finding her pressure point. Harry’s older than you. Let her lead. We’ll know what we’re fighting against then. When you’re eighteen we won’t have to care, but for now, you have nothing to prove.”

“Look at me.” Sherlock took John’s chin between his fingers, forcing him to lift his eyes. “It’s not worth the risk.”

“You’re worth every risk!” He stood up and kicked at the gravel around the firepit. “That’s what fucking got me the most, the way he said that, the way you didn’t react. I thought you _believed_ it.”

“Believed what?”

John finally paced back to Sherlock, crouching in the gravel beside him. The firelight cast shadows under his cheekbones and highlighted the amber streaks running through his golden hair. The shadows accentuated his ears, making them look double the size.

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He reached out and touched John’s hair, brushing it back behind his ears. It’d grown so much since his military cut. He was so beautiful. 

John caught his hand. 

“I worried you’d believe what he said about regret.”

John hung his head.

So this wasn't about James.

It was about guilt.

“I could _never_ regret you. I promise. I know I’m not good enough for you, that much was true, but even if you wise up and leave me tomorrow, I won’t regret _you_.”

“John, I _forgive_ you already. Why can’t you forgive yourself?”

He let go of Sherlock and looked out at the people dancing in the distance.

“We aren’t supposed to show weakness in my family. We aren’t supposed to show pain. People know, but no one says anything.” 

He poked at the fire, stirring the ashes

“Things are different with you. You’re the shallow and the deep end of the pool all at once. Either you deduce things I don’t even know I’m thinking or you’re so dense I have to tell you every explicit human emotion. And you know what? It works out. It always does. You seem to know what I’m thinking when I don’t feel like talking, and you ask now when you don’t understand an emotion or a situation. I get to explain it to you. It’s like therapy to me. I get to feel my emotions and be justified for having them at the same time. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

He couldn’t bear to look at Sherlock. Admitting weakness was still such a foreign concept. 

“When I didn’t stand by you, I was giving into fear. Watsons aren’t supposed to feel fear,” he said, settling in the gravel and hugging his legs to his chest. He rested his jaw on his knees.

“ _I’m_ not supposed to feel fear.”

Sherlock scooted closer to him, leaning down to where their breath was on the same level. 

“Fear is wisdom in the face of danger. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But loving you isn’t dangerous,” said John. He retreated deeper into his own embrace.

Sherlock paused just a beat.

“Yes it is.”

Sherlock looked up at the stars, more visible here than in London, but still faded against the light. 

“I’m not happy about what happened, John, but I forgive you. It is what it is. You were afraid, but you made it better, and in front of the whole school in the most impressive display of coordination and commitment I’ve ever seen. I, for one, think that’s pretty brave. And the way you managed all those people? You might actually make a decent military captain.”

Sherlock liked that thought. Not the thought of John getting shot at more frequently than he already did, but the idea of John in uniform. _Captain Watson._

Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold?

John spoke softly. “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important than fear.” He turned. “My dad told me that. Greg said something pretty similar.”

“Wise men,” grunted Sherlock.

“Not as wise as you,” said John. Then he amended, “About _some_ things. I’ll leave the solar system up to your mum and basic people skills up to literally anyone else.”

Sherlock laughed. 

“I confess that I have been blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”

“Well, aren’t you full of gold nuggets today?”

“Sometimes.” 

The boys leaned against each other, gazing into the fire.

“My dad taught us guitar,” said John quietly. “Did I ever tell you that? He loved it. He bought me the Martin, the most vintage guitar he could find when he was home on leave. He took me to have _Motorhead_ sign it, can you believe that? He used every military connection he could. I covered it with a sticker so no one would think about stealing it.”

John laughed at the memory. 

“Harry said I was a damn fool, that I ruined the value, but I’m glad I did it. Mum would have hocked it if she knew, would have said we needed the money more than we needed music.”

“I used to think that guitar was the most important thing in my life.” He looked at Sherlock, the corner of his mouth betraying an affectionate gaze. “Now I know it’s you.” 

Sherlock reached over and wrapped his arms around John, rubbing his shoulders to keep him warm against the night air.

He leaned in and kissed him, careful and chaste, then looked into his eyes.

“You are the heart of me, John Watson.”

John’s throat bobbed. He exhaled, shaky. 

“When did we become so sappy?” 

“Do you mind?” asked Sherlock, already ushering John in front of him so he could hold his back against him while they warmed by the fire. 

“No,” John replied. “We are an annoying couple now. Wearing each other’s clothes and all that.”

He fell against his boyfriend’s chest and relaxed. 

Sherlock liked the story of the guitar, loved the idea that John would share something so personal with him. He hadn’t even told Greg about Motorhead. He thought maybe he could buy a wall mount, fix up a non-murder wall where he could hang John’s guitar and his violin right next to each other, but then he realized... 

“John,” Sherlock asked, “where _is_ your guitar? You haven’t played all week.”

Sherlock felt him stiffen.

“I damaged it,” said John, “in the operation. I sent it off to get fixed. It might take a while.”

“Oh.” 

Sherlock’s deduction senses trilled in alarm. Something wasn’t right. Hesitation, one too many details. 

But he dismissed it. 

John didn’t lie. John never lied, especially not to him.

_Not like I’m lying to him._

Sherlock tensed against a sudden gale, shielding John from the swirling ashes and hoping he never opened his eyes to the obvious track mark scars on his arms and the fresh one still there.

He hadn’t noticed yet, and if Sherlock never shot up again, maybe he never would.

Sherlock wasn’t the only one in their relationship who dismissed things he’d rather not see.

________________________________________________________________________________

Two things happened while John and Sherlock were away.

Molly accepted Stephen’s invitation to the ball, and Greg asked Dorian Hardgrave. 

Dorian was so happy he gave Greg an entire tray loaded down with creme brulees and French chocolates, and that’s where the boys found him, warming himself by the Indian grill and eating away his sorrows.

Sherlock couldn’t help but think it was all for the best. There couldn’t be _two_ emotional eaters in the Holmes family.

“Well, at least we’re batting two for four now,” said Eddy. 

Brett still wasn’t talking. He hadn’t uttered a peep since the calamity. 

Stephen, too preoccupied staring at Molly, only returned to the conversation when he slipped and burned himself on his own grill. 

His expression soured and he mumbled his words over sucking his reddened thumb. “We could be batting four for four if you two weren’t too busy being a disgrace to the land down under.”

“Which is where I’d like to be,” said Brett, coming around. 

“You want to go back to Australia?” Mike asked.

“No, just six feet.” 

Brett slammed his head on the table, going back to being dead.

Molly, who’d only joined the group long enough to tell her own horror story, asked what Brett had done.

What hadn’t he done proved the better question.

“How the hell was I supposed to know,” he lamented, “that her sister was a violist? I mean, what kind of self-respecting violinist would allow their own blood to practice _viola?_ I ask you!”

Eddy patted him on the head. “Tut, tut, Brett old boy. If you ask me, you dodged a bullet. What if she expected you to attend recitals, or worse, expected your children to learn the viola?”

Brett hammered down his fist. “No Yang will ever play viola! I want it inscribed on my tombstone and penned into the fine print of my will. Mark my words: may the bush burn, may the wheat wither in our fields, may the rivers run red with — !”

“I’m sure a solicitor can sort the whole thing,” Sherlock assured him. 

After all, if an old lady in Manchester could leave everything to her cats, he was sure Brett could blacklist any wayward musicians brazen enough to bring dishonor upon the house of Yang.

The night was coming to a close for the vendors and the boys started storing away all of their things. What couldn’t be cleaned that night could be washed in the cafeteria in the morning. Brett, Eddy, and Stephen turned in their profits to the department and headed off to meet Ryan and Tyler. 

“Go on,” Sherlock nudged John after the group. “Why don’t you join them?”

John looked between his beckoning friends and his boyfriend. Sherlock could tell that he really did want to go, and a normal activity would be good for his nerves.

“Are you sure?” asked John. “I thought you wanted to investigate Kipling?”

“I will,” said Sherlock. “It won’t take me more than thirty minutes. It’ll be boring. You’ll hardly miss anything.”

John wasn’t convinced. “Boring? With you around?”

Sherlock had already started the other way. “Of course. You’re the one who causes all the bother.”

“Git.”

“Wanker.”

With that deeply romantic farewell out of the way, Sherlock set out across the lawn. It wasn’t too difficult sneaking into Kipling. In all the confusion, all he had to do was grab an armful of discarded to-go boxes and act like he needed someone to open the door. He ducked down where no one could see his face and walked inside. When the coast was clear, he dumped the boxes right in the middle of the stairwell and went about his business.

He began by searching the bulletin boards. Fliers for the photography club piqued his interest. The stalker/attempted murderer used a Canon T5, if Mary was to be believed, and was likely an amateur photographer. He’d already checked with the history department. Not a single thing was missing, and the professor assured him that the department had never owned a matchbox camera, so this practicing killer probably collected rare antique cameras. No man fixed on the modern era would use such outdated spy equipment. The arsehole probably kept them on display in his room. 

All Sherlock needed to do was find a list of active club members, discover their connection to Agatha on the day in question, search their rooms, and BOOM. He had his man. In the meantime, he’d copied the files from the physical therapist’s office on a flash drive and assigned a field hockey girl to groups of potential victims. If he wanted to kill someone in the same way he’d tried to kill Agatha, he’d have a time of it. 

Sherlock quickly perused the photography club’s Facebook page and compiled a list against those who also liked the Kipling Hall community page. It was too easy. 

Seventeen potentials and most of them were likely out enjoying the festival. He didn’t even have to hack into the computers to discover rooms. Instructors over the halls had the annoying habit of labeling the doors with residents' full names. (He’d nearly bitten Professor Challenger’s hand off when he’d tried something similar on 221’s door.)

Really, people hand out too much personal information.

He went up to the seventh floor and worked his way down, knocking to make sure no one was home before picking locks and letting himself inside. He crossed off eight potential suspects by the time he made it to the fourth floor and was on to his ninth when he noticed something peculiar hanging on the wall of the opposite room. The boy (year eleven, vaper, serial philanderer, secretly hiding a guinea pig under his bed, allergic to peanuts, originally from Ireland) held his door open long enough for Sherlock to see John’s Martin hanging above the work desk. 

But it couldn’t be. John didn’t _lie._

Sherlock observed it. 

Two exposed humbuckers, an offset body, and a funky scroll-like headstock shape. 

He looked for the most damning evidence of all and found it in the shape of a Motorhead sticker.

“Where’d you get that guitar?”

Sherlock had his foot in the door before he even knew what he was doing. 

The boy looked up from his phone and almost dropped his food. 

“What’s it any of your business?” he squinted his eyes. “Hey, I know you. You’re that detective bloke. The one that he played this guitar for. You’re not supposed to be in this building.”

The one that he…? 

“Did John sell you this guitar?” he asked. 

Why would he do such a stupid thing? Didn’t John know he could ask him for money? What was he doing wasting it winning a stuffed goat if he was so hard up?”

The boy shook his head. “No, not him. The French one. I paid him £2,000 pounds for it.”

“The French one?”

“Yeah, the blonde guitarist. He looks like one of those Nordic aliens?”

Holy motherfucker.

John had bribed Dorian Hardgrave with his guitar.

_“I used to think that guitar was the most important thing in my life. Now I know it’s you.”_

“I’ll skin him!” Sherlock snapped.

The boy jolted in alarm. He tried to close the door, but Sherlock wouldn’t budge. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, not you!” Sherlock glared at the instrument. 

He’d show that bastard. 

“How much do you want for it?”

“The guitar?” The boy pretended to look at the Martin but was really checking the room for potential weapons. “I don’t want to sell it. I only just bought it.”

“Listen,” Sherlock looked at the name on the door. “Ackerman, is it? I’m going to give you two options: you can sell me that guitar right now at triple the price that you paid for it or I can spend the evening illustrating for you the Chicago mafia’s technique for meat hook torture. Which is it going to be?”

“Meat hook torture!”

Now Sherlock would never torture anyone. He played on the side of the Angels. However, he wasn’t one of them. If Ackerman misconstrued that he aimed to explain meat hook torture with a rump roast and an ice pick, then that was on him. 

________________________________________________________________________________

The Wednesday before the Light the Night festival Sherlock and John had been sitting in their advanced chemistry class. Sherlock adjusted his goggles, mixed a solution, and scratched the formula in John’s notebook. He explained the solution and how one needed to be careful when exposing it to too much oxygen at a single time, but what was achingly simple to him was complex and painstaking for John.

“I don’t understand,” said John.

“You should have that on a t-shirt.”

Sherlock went through the equation with more patience than he ever would have had for an ordinary person.

“This mixture is highly caustic. You need to handle it with care or you'll burn the shit out of yourself.”

He went on, gathering a small crowd because Sherlock was quite the teacher when he wanted to be. A few bystanders even took notes.

John sat by, nodding his head, rubbing his chin, grunting in agreement, and then said, “Yeah, babe, I _still don’t understand.”_

Sherlock sent his pencil spinning up into the ceiling.

“And that should be the back of the t-shirt!”

It was a good thing he was rich because John wasn’t going to support him as a doctor anytime soon. 

Sherlock stood grumbling, crossing his arms and thinking maybe he’d been too soft on John as a tutor when Kitty Riley walked in. How she made it this far in the day without being dress-coded he’d never know, because she wore practically nothing. 

He supposed that with a little more fabric the ensemble could have been mistaken for a field hockey uniform. Her hair had changed. It was bleached and lobbed off, and her makeup looked more natural. The way she’d chosen to draw on her eyebrows, she almost looked like…

“Mary.”

John looked up from his work. “Hmm? Are we really going at _that_ again? I told you, I don’t like her!”

“Maybe you’ll like me.”

John looked up at Kitty, noticing her for the first time. She held her hands behind her back and leaned over, puffing her tits in his face. 

“Christ!” 

John nearly fell off his stool.

He looked at Sherlock in alarm. 

“Is this some kind of prank?”

“That’s what I’m asking,” said Kitty. “I’ve seen the way you look at girls, John. Girls like Mary, girls like me. I know you’re not gay. Is your romance with Sherlock some kind of publicity for your blog?”

John puffed like a disgruntled hedgehog, looking like he’d like to strangle Kitty.

“What the fuck did you say?”

The crowd exchanged furtive glances, backing away with their own beakers at an arm's length. 

Kitty carried on as if nothing had happened. “Don’t get me wrong, your stunt was sweet, but I think you should direct it at someone more worthy. I mean, why go to all that trouble for a boy like Sherlock Holmes? Could it be that you needed more exposure for your burgeoning blog? Come now, John, my parents are in the newspaper business. I know how to do anything for a story.”

She leaned in, a breath away from his face.

“Anything.”

Sherlock balled his fists and went to move her, but John held up a hand. 

“You’re right,” nodded John, shocking the people who overheard. “I do like women. I also like men. I’m a bisexual and _damn_ proud of it, but you can paint me pink and label me gay for all I care because that ass,” he pointed at Sherlock, “is the only one I’m interested in and the only one I ever will be from here on out.”

He posted up in Kitty’s face. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand, so you can borrow a lab coat and walk your gossip-mongering, media-hungry ass out of here before I call you a word I swore I’d never say to a lady, not that you are one.”

John may have been fuming, but Sherlock had never smiled so big in his life. 

_You can’t snog John on a table with open flames and caustic chemicals,_ he reminded himself. _You really can’t. Have some decorum, Holmes._

But his good mood didn’t last long, because no sooner had John sent her packing than she pressed him against the cabinets and snogged him, grinding her pelvis against him. 

It was fucking _assault._

John shoved her off and over a chair. 

“What is God’s name is wrong with you?” he shouted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand against safety code regulations.

Sherlock started for her with all moral ideas of chivalry dead where they lay. 

“No, Sherlock, don’t!” said Molly, hugging him by the arm. “She’s as mad as a bag of ferrets! She isn’t worth it.”

Sherlock trembled with rage. He looked at John, hacking and wiping at his apron like he couldn’t scrape her off of him, and cooled.

John was okay. She hadn’t hurt him.

Then he noticed John’s feet. He wore the proper shoes as Sherlock always insisted. All the students did after that debacle at the beginning of the year. But Kitty Riley didn’t. Despite her attire, she wore flip flops, probably under the delusion that less was more. 

Sherlock took up his beaker. 

“Thank you, Hoops. You’re quite right.”

And then he’d smashed the beaker at Kitty Riley’s feet. 

In hindsight, maybe he’d behaved a _bit_ not good, but he’d never forget the horrified look on John’s face when she’d gone after him. 

What Sherlock did forget, however, was that Kitty Riley’s brother, Thomas, lived in Kipling Hall. 

“Well if it isn’t the school faggot,” droned Thomas. “Not so tough without your little boyfriend, are you?”

Sherlock was plenty tough, the problem was a) he wasn’t expecting it, b) there were six of them, and c) he’d been trying to protect John’s guitar. He managed to slide it under the common room couch, but not before three of Thomas’s thugs restrained him and the remaining half beat the piss out of him. 

Sherlock spat blood on his shoes. “Loads tougher than you with your lackeys and the ever-present crutch of homophobia shielding you from your interest in Gabriel.”

The aforementioned boy punched him in the gut.

“We won’t fall for you little parlor tricks, Holmes. You can’t make fools out of us.”

“Obviously. Your mothers suffered that dishonor at conception.”

Thomas clocked him and held a cold object at his throat. Some kind of brass knuckles, Sherlock deduced, probably the ones Kitty carried on her keychain. 

Poetic justice in Thomas’s mind.

“You’d outlast God just to have the last word, wouldn’t you?

Sherlock shook it off, splattering blood and bits of his tongue everywhere. 

“Why do you ask?” he panted. “Do you not outlast Gabriel?”

It was the last barb he was able to utter before they beat him viciously enough they could take turns kicking him on the floor, and he would have been in a bad spot if not for an unknown guardian angel.

Archie Moffat was a year nine. He crouched, peeping through the stair rails as the older boys beat Mr. Holmes. Archie read his blog, thought he was fascinating. His only complaint was that there were never enough pictures. On the few occasions he’d spoken to Mr. Holmes, he’d never called him a derogatory name, never belittled him for being young like the other older boys did, and always referred to him as Mr. Moffat. 

Archie appreciated that, and so he sprinted down the stairs.

Mr. Holmes needed help, and Archie was going to find it for him.

________________________________________________________________________________

John, Molly, and the lads (minus Brett, off licking old wounds) were finally near the beginning of the line. Three more groups and they could ride the _Egg Scrambler._ It was the wildest ride at the festival, with a hollowed-out area that spun so fast it pressed you against the wall where you couldn’t move. 

Molly chewed her fingers excitedly and Stephen held onto her hand petrified, though he put up an admirable act trying not to show it. 

“God, this better be as good as they say it is. I’ve aged like a fine wine standing here!” said Eddy.

“Not too fine,” quipped Ryan. “My mate said he saw a couple of arseholes bribe their way to the front of the line. If my mum and dad would let me have a go at my fund I’d try that rubbish.”

Tyler and Mike blew raspberries. 

“No way, mate!’

“Only a tosser would do something like that. Even Princess Diana made Will and Harry wait in lines.”

John kept his mouth shut. They’d rib him to death if they knew Sherlock spoiled him, and even more if they knew his ass had already ridden all the rides. It’s been almost two hours and the lads had only managed to get on three. 

Two hours.

He looked at his phone. 

Sherlock said his investigation would only take thirty minutes. Where the hell was he? 

John knew. 

He was either cracking the case wide open or in a spectacular amount of trouble. There could be no in between. 

“Hey,” Mike jerked his chin. “I wonder what his problem is.”

John looked over and saw a small boy pushing through the crowds and running around frantically. When he saw John, he raced over gasping.

“Mr. Watson, Mr. Watson!”

“Mr. Watson?” smirked Eddy. “Do you know this tyke, John? You and Sherlock spawn a little love child, did you?”

Archie kicked him in the shin.

“Bugger!” 

“Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes is in trouble!”

That sobered the group up quickly, all except Eddy, who was too busy hopping around cursing. 

John started running. He didn’t know where he was going, but Archie led the way.

“Where is he?”

“Kipling. He got jumped by a group of thirteens. There were too many of them.”

Mike barreled through the doors of Kipling Hall, splintering the oak. Archie was right. Sherlock was barely recognizable he was so raw and caked with blood on the floor. 

John didn’t ask questions, and neither did the rest of the lads. They just came in swinging. 

John recognized the group. Sampson Hagar. Michael Zeldovich. Gabriel Gibson. Harold Jones. Tom Slater.

But he aimed for Thomas Riley.

John didn’t have to be a genius to know Thomas instigated the whole thing. Retaliation, John was sure, for Sherlock’s provoked attack on Kitty. John would have felt the same way a little bit, even if Harry were batshit crazy, but what they’d _done_ to him.

It was too far, and so John didn’t hold back.

Hagar and Zeldovich tried to run, but Mike held them by the throat under his armpits, suspending them off the ground. Eddy tackled Jones clean through a trophy case, and Ryan and Tyler had Gibson, a burly man twice their size, on the ropes, laying into him with one punch after the other. He flipped Tyler, but Ryan avenged him.

The eyes are the crotch of the face.

Greg took on Tom Slater. The two both practiced martial arts, so it was quite the sight to behold. Greg eventually gained the upper hand when he feinted a shell shoot jab and crossed into no-man’s land. Slater was taller than him, but now he was so up in his business it was awkward for Slater to throw punches down, and Greg chopped away at his middle before kneeing him in the liver. 

Stephen’s dad was the rugby coach, so he knew just enough about injuries to examine Sherlock. 

“Molly, call an ambulance and campus security now!”

“Is it that bad?” but she was dialing anyway. 

“Look at this!” 

He didn’t tug out the foreign article, afraid it would unplug more bleeding, but he recognized it from Kitty’s keychain. It was pink, pointed, brass knuckles. It was in the shape of a cat, and the ears were caught over one of his ribs. If it’d gone between, it would have killed him. 

John heard and when ballistic. 

He took Thomas by the hair and hammered into his face, over and over.

“John, John stop it!” Greg tried to pull him off. “John, that’s enough!”

No one could get to him. 

“Come back to us, mate, he’s breathing!” said Eddy. It was the most comforting thing he could say. “Snap out of it! They’ll slap you for murder if you don’t let him go!”

In the end, Mike had to pull him off. John was absolutely beside himself. 

He tried to ride in the ambulance, but the police wouldn’t let him. 

“Call Mycroft,” John said to Greg. “If they arrest us and we get only one phone call, make it Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg didn’t like it, but agreed it was the most effective course of action. 

John thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest. What if Sherlock wasn’t okay? What if he was injured for life? What if he got kicked out of school? 

What if this was what his mum considered “one more scrape with Sherlock Holmes?”

He wouldn’t go back. 

He _refused_.

It felt like everyone was involved, but thankfully the police wouldn't let school officials call the parents of non-critically injured students until a statement had been drawn.

“He attacked my sister!”

“It was an accident!” screamed John. “The professor said so and so did a room full of witnesses!”

It wasn’t an accident, but general consensus was people hated Kitty more than they did Sherlock. At least the things he said were _true._

The authorities pulled the surveillance footage of the common room and said it showed Sherlock being jumped by six boys. It also showed Archie running for help and the lads bursting in just like John said. 

Thomas and his friends slung solicitors' names around like mud, and Tyler threw the names of his father’s entire ten firms right back. They’d go to hell, he said, before the Briggses would let this go.

By then Headmaster Breckenridge was sweating pretty profusely, but if he thought fourteen teen boys were giving him grief, it was nothing compared to how Mycroft Holmes reacted. 

“My baby brother is lying in an ICU with a foreign object sticking out of his side after being jumped by six other boys because of a resolved misunderstanding and you have the nerve to tell me it’s his fault?”

Breckenridge tried to stick to his guns, but the police force knew better. They’d dealt with Mycroft Holmes before and backed off.

“He shouldn’t have been in Kipling in the first place.”

“Do you know what I found in his pocket?” Mycroft asked. He unfolded a flyer. 

“An application for Photography Club. Seems innocent, don’t you think?”

And John had no doubts if it wasn’t innocent, an agent would wipe the surveillance footage and make it _look_ innocent. Kitty had already told authorities her burns were an accident, the result of not wearing proper gear in a lab she shouldn’t have been in, but her brother’s retaliation drug it all up again. 

Any overprotective mothers stupid enough to hire lawyers were shitting their pants right about now. Mycroft would spin this so that their little angels looked like demons and would throw them in a juvenile detention center so hard they’d pop out in China. John just knew it.

But he sweated bullets the whole time. 

As if Mycroft’s lawyers weren’t enough, Tyler’s showed up on the scene by helicopter.

Everything was spiraling out of control. 

“Breathe, John,” soothed Molly. “It’s going to be okay.”

But how could Molly know? 

She was his friend. He needed to trust her. 

“He’s gonna be okay,” John said. “He’s gonna be okay.”

Mycroft flew them to the hospital in separate helicopters. All of them waited while the business was sorted out. It took hours, but luckily the shitty attackers also had shitty parents. That made it easier, Mycroft said, and John felt himself finally relax on one front. 

Holmeses could find pressure points like metal detectors found nails.

Mycroft assured them that all would be settled out of court and that the only punishment they needed to worry about would come from the school. They wouldn’t be expelled, but the other students would be.

“And my mum?” asked John. 

Worrying about her seemed easier than worrying about Sherlock being dead. If he was dead, which he _couldn’t be,_ then John didn’t give a damn one way or the other. But Sherlock was _going to be okay godfrickingdamnit_ and that meant he needed to care about Mum.

“Are they going to call her?”

“They already did,” said Mycroft. “I watched them myself. Dictated every word.”

John breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Better call her, John,” said Mycroft.

John guessed they were on a first-name basis now. 

“Your phones rang seven times.”

Had it?

John looked down at his mobile and then at his friends. 

“Thank you, Mycroft,” said John. “From all of us.”

“Our debt is canceled, then. You all saving my brother in exchange for my saving your skins.”

He nodded curtly, stopping in front of Greg. 

“None of you,” he said, “are disposable. Sherlock’s never had friends. Much of that was my fault and the rest the blame of his own personality. The loss of any of you would break his heart.”

Mycroft looked directly at Greg.

“And mine.”

The lads and Molly looked at one another, all excusing themselves for the dreaded calls to their parents. 

John took a deep breath and prepared to face his own music, but before he could, a loud shriek startled him and caused him to fumble his phone on the linoleum. 

“MYCROFT HOLMES!” 

An elderly lady came storming down the hallway wielding a purse at anyone who got in her way. 

“YOU SODDING REPTILE. WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME? WHERE THE HELL IS MY BOY?”

Her boy?

The lads looked at one another and shrugged. It wasn’t their mother, and she looked human enough not to be related to the Rileys.

Mycroft exhaled and stepped away from Greg. 

“He’s in surgery, Mrs. Hudson. As soon as the doctors say it’s alright you’ll be permitted as family.”

“I AM FAMILY! Your mummy told me everything. Why didn’t you call me the last time? She said he was admitted last week. He could have died, Mycroft. If you lose Sherlock Holmes who will you have then? Because you bloody well won’t have me!”

She turned on her heel and stalked to the nurse's desk, blazing. 

So that was the notorious Mrs. Hudson. 

John wanted to approach her, but if he was being honest with himself, for all his talk about overcoming fear he was terrified of Mrs. Hudson. She was in no mood to be trifled with and John desperately needed her to like him.

Suddenly calling his mum didn’t seem half bad. 

John dialed.

“Oh, thank heavens! Where have you been? I’ve been calling all night!”

John thought it best to ham it up a little bit. Mum was so much more receptive when he cried, and honestly? 

He fucking needed it.

“I’m at the hospital, Mum. I’m okay but a pack of blokes jumped Sherlock. They jumped him for no reason. The school suspended the guys who did it, but it was so hard to find him like that.”

He hoped he hadn’t laid it on too thick. After all, most of it was true.

“John, sweetie, I think you need to come home.”

“Please no!” he broke his facade. “Please! I have amazing friends here, I’ve been healthier!”

“Healthier! You’re always poking into trouble with that Holmes boy. It’s lucky you’re not the one in hospital.”

“But I’m not, he is! He’s not a bad person, Mum. Please, haven’t you ever had anyone you loved?”

It slipped out of his mouth before he knew what he’d done. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“A best friend, Mum. Someone you knew would be your best mate for life, even if you got into trouble with them.” 

All those scrapes with Sherlock taught him to think on his feet. 

“My grades are good, we haven’t been in any scrapes, and this one isn’t even our fault!”

Cynthia thought about it.

“I did have a good friend once I got into trouble with, but John, the things you and Sherlock stumble into aren’t normal. You have to understand that. I’m your mother, I love you. I’m _worried_.”

John exhaled.

“Please don’t take me home,” he said quietly, playing the last card he had left. “God wanted me here for a reason. I’ve done good things, Mum. I’ve saved two lives. First Agatha’s, now Sherlock’s.”

John didn’t feel that way. He hadn’t saved anyone. Real doctors had.

“I’m going to go to medical school. I’m going to save loads of people. I’m going to make dad proud, so please, give me one more opportunity.” He closed his eyes, praying. “Please.”

Cynthia sighed on the other end of the phone. 

She wasn’t a bad mother.

An overworked mother, a stoic mother, a hard mother, an uncompromising mother.

But not a bad mother. For now, she loved John. Surely she would see reason. 

“We’ll talk about this in the morning, John. Go back to school and get some sleep. In the meantime, I’ll pray for you, and for Sherlock.”

________________________________________________________________________________

John most certainly did _not_ go back to school. No one did. He laid spread eagle on the cold linoleum all night. Brett snuck off-campus and joined the vigil bearing gifts of leftover barbecue. No one felt like eating much, but Greg and Mycroft did. They ate through three boxes, nervously chomping at corn and spare ribs. 

Things seemed easier between the two, but they didn’t talk. Only ate and passed condiments. 

Mycroft had sauce all over his pinstripe suit. 

John was thinking how funny Sherlock would find the whole thing when he heard the crisp click of heels come to a stop at his scalp. 

“You’re John, aren’t you?” 

Mrs. Hudson leaned over John’s upside-down body, smiling. Her jewelry dangled in his face and he scrambled to his feet, brushing the dirt off his hoodie and feeling embarrassed to look so ramshackle in front of a woman who was essentially Sherlock’s mother.

_If you’re worried about my parents' approval, don’t. Worry about Mrs. Hudson’s._

“Yes,” his voice hitched. 

He cleared his throat.

“Yes, my name is John.” He stuck out his hand. 

She didn’t take it, but instead smiled and pressed her cold palms to his face, so soft with age and smelling of earth and rosemary. 

“You are handsome. I can see why he likes you.” She brushed the hair out of his face. “Always caught up in the thick of it, aren’t you?”

“I try not to be,” John answered honestly, “but it’s where you end up running with him.”

Mrs. Hudson cocked her head fondly. 

“Walk with me, John.”

She interlocked their elbows and led him to the parking lot. 

“I read your blog. He texts me the links whenever you update. Did you know that?”

John didn’t. Sherlock said his blog was distasteful, tacky, and that the titles John gave the cases were “a perfectly ridiculous reflection of unpublished postulants forcing their opinions on the world via the global sphere of otherwise superfluous, all-encompassing technological advances.” 

John could say one thing for their relationship: it’d certainly improved his vocabulary. 

“You don’t write much anymore,” Mrs. Hudson continued. 

John licked his lips. “Our relationship has changed a bit. Some things I just don't... share.”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s told me.”

Then Mrs. Hudson winked. 

“Live and let live. That’s my motto.”

They winded to an underground parking garage, the kind you had to pay to use. 

“Sherlock likes to walk when he needs to clear his head. He enjoys spelling out nice little messages for his older brother on Google maps. I, however, prefer transportation.”

She let go of John’s arm and rounded the side of an Aston Martin, platinum, and _the_ nicest car John had ever seen. 

He stood gaping. 

“Is this… Is this _your car?”_

“Well, of course,” said Mrs. Hudson, looking confused. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

John stammered. He wanted Mrs. Hudson to like him, but he just had to know. Surely Sherlock didn’t go around giving Aston Martin’s as Mother’s Day gifts, did he?

“It’s just… He said…”

Mrs. Hudson narrowed her eyes, her voice deepening. 

“What did he say, John?”

“I know this sounds rude, and granted he did claim you as his mother, but when I first met him, Sherlock said you were his housekeeper.”

“Housekeeper!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. “That cheeky bastard! Oh, I don’t mean that, but I do, actually, and —”

“Trust me,” said John, holding up his hand. “I understand. With no offense to you, I’ve been calling Sherlock a bastard since the day we met.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Nice to see that love isn’t blind. That devil! For God’s sake, I’m the widow of a drug dealer. I own property in central London. Housekeeper my arse!”

There were a lot of things John wanted to unload from that statement, but he didn’t have time for all of that.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he asked. “Can I drive your car?”

She smiled.

“Oh, my dear boy,” she said. “ _No_.”

________________________________________________________________________________

Martha Hudson drove like a demon.

“So,” he choked, hoping his fingernails weren’t leaving indents in the dashboard, “Sherlock tells me you taught him to drive.”

“Who else?” she said, pulling an illegal U-turn at a red light. “I did all the proper raising with Sherlock. I never had any children myself. I always wanted a dark-haired little girl to take to ballet classes.”

“God’s pretty spot on about some things.”

“Isn’t he, though?”

Mrs. Hudson tore through downtown. A man in a tricked out Honda modified with multiple exhaust pipes pulled up alongside her and beat on the roof of his car. He couldn’t see it was an old lady through her tinted windows. 

“You wanna race, motherfucker?”

Mrs. Hudson rolled down the window.

“I beg your pardon!”

John wiggled uncomfortably in his seat. Mrs. Hudson had a revolver sticking out of her cup holder for which he was certain she didn’t have a permit. When he asked about it, she said it was a birthday gift from Sherlock, custom ordered for her all the way from Florida.

“Hey, bell end, tell your grandma to shove it up her arse!”

“Grandma!” said Mrs. Hudson, and she flipped him the bird before peeling off down the long strip, easily smoking the other driver. She cut him off until he ran into a city lake. 

“Today’s youth,” she protested sullenly. “So disrespectful. People can say what they like, but I raised Sherlock better, at least in all the areas where it counts!”

She looked down at her phone and sped past the police station.

“So,” she said, placing the phone back in the cupholder and turning towards John, “let’s hear all about it.”

John prayed he wouldn’t be arrested twice in one night.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why you and Sherlock, of course! You can’t bloody well get anything out of him. So closed off. It’s his parents' fault. All I know is he called me yesterday, said, ‘Mrs. Hudson, I’m going to manipulate some variables. If all goes well, you can expect an extra for Christmas dinner,’ and then he hung up the ruddy phone. I know he must mean you, dear. You’re the only thing I can ever get him to talk about. ‘John this’ and ‘John says that.’ He seemed a little put off last week, gutted, really, but this week he’s not even trying to hide his crush.”

John blazed. “Um, actually, we started dating last week. It’s hush-hush with my lot, but Sherlock says his family won’t have a problem with it?”

“ _Of course not,_ ” Mrs. Hudson waved. “I told you, live and let live. I’m so happy to hear you’ve come round. He gets so upset when he doesn’t have a case or you to cheer him up. I’m glad this last stint in hospital wasn’t too bad. He’s been doing so much better this year.”

John straightened. 

“The last stint? Wait, Mrs. Hudson, you said in the hospital Sherlock was admitted last week. What did you mean by that? Did someone hurt him before?”

John sickened at the idea. Sherlock had been _hurt_ and he hadn’t been there.

“You mean he didn’t tell you?” 

Mrs. Hudson’s cheery persona evaporated. 

“He gets sick sometimes,” she amended. “You know how he can be, never eating.”

The hairs on the back of his next bristled.

_Never ignore intuition, John._

He picked at the dry patches on his chapped lips.

“Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock isn’t… He isn’t _dying,_ is he?”

John’s stomach turned in knots. 

God, with that beating he took, what if he was sick on top of that?

“He isn’t dying,” said Mrs. Hudson, slowing the car for the first time and reaching over to hold John’s hand. It was trembling slightly and she noticed. 

“I used to be nervous. Lord, scared out of my wits most of the time. I never knew when my husband came home if something I cooked or something I said would set him off. He was a powerful man, but Sherlock took care of it. Sherlock always takes care of people.”

She pulled the car back into the parking garage.

“He does so much _good,_ John,” she said, “but no one ever notices. I can’t tell you Sherlock’s business, but I can tell you one thing. Sherlock Holmes isn’t dying, because we’re not going to let him. Do you understand?”

John unbuckled his seat belt while Mrs. Hudson parked the car.

She turned, taking up John’s hand again.

“Promise me,” she said. “Promise me you’ll take care of my boy.”

John didn’t hesitate. 

It bothered him Sherlock didn't trust him, a medical school hopeful and his boyfriend, with something so earth-shattering as this apparent, ongoing health scare, but whatever it was, it didn't matter. John would take him for ninety years or ninety seconds. 

“The problems of his past are his business,” nodded John, “but the problems of his future are my privilege. I’ll take care of him, Mrs. Hudson. I swear I will.”

That wasn’t enough for her.

“His past dominates his present and influences his future, John. It’ll take more than that. If you can’t handle it, if you can't face all of the skeletons that _will_ come out of the closet, then you need to leave now before it's too late.”

“No offense, Mr. Hudson, but at this point, I'm kind of a pro handling things that come out of closets. I can handle Sherlock,” John insisted. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Mrs. Hudson’s mobile buzzed in the cupholder next to the revolver. 

“Let’s hope you can,” she said, flicking off the screen, “because he just woke up.”

________________________________________________________________________________

Mycroft was the first to see Sherlock, then Mrs. Hudson, but they were both out in a matter of minutes. He was on pain medication and flying pretty high, they said, but otherwise alright. He could leave after a few days of observation, but it’d take six weeks for him to heal.

A week for every one of those assholes, John thought.

It was Sherlock’s face that really took the brunt of it. His nose was busted and both of his eyes were so swollen you couldn’t even tell they were blue anymore. Even one of his cheekbones had been broken, but mended in surgery. He topped the whole cataclysm with a concussion and bruising to the left ribcage. 

Stubbornness was the only reason he’d been able to fight through the meds.

John could hear him screaming for him in the other room.

“JOHN! Where’s John? If you don’t bring him to me I’ll jump off the bloody roof. How’d you prats like that? The lawsuits would be insufferable. JOHN.”

“He’s asking for you,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Better pop off before they slip him a sedative.”

John nodded and looked at his friends. He grabbed Molly and Greg’s hands. 

“We should all go in,” he said. “He’ll probably be a dick about it, but I want him to see you’re all here.”

“Of course, mate,” said Mike. “We know how he is. We didn’t stay here all night for nothing.”

John walked into the room.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed. He was unrecognizable but in high spirits. 

“Hey, baby. How are you feeling?”

“Pssssst,” Sherlock spat out his lips even though it caused them to bleed. 

“Tis but a scratch.” 

His eyes widened as much as they could since his brows were already puffed to the size of baseballs. 

“Molly! Eddy! Mikey! Stephen! Greg!”

He named off Tyler, Ryan, and Brett too, even singing a little rendition of _The Boys are Back in Town_ (something he’d picked up from John), but no one heard a word.

If the gang wasn’t concerned before, they were worried sick now.

“Did you just say _my name?”_ asked Greg. He pointed at himself. “Who am I? Tell me who I am!”

Sherlock giggled, but the motion hurt his ribs. 

“You don’t know your own name? You _will_ fit in at the Yard. You’re Gregory Hugo Lestrade, and you,” Sherlock pointed, then said in a singsong voice, “are shagging my brother.”

Ryan and Eddy’s jaws dropped in complete and utter joy. They didn’t know where to begin first, terrorizing Greg about his middle name or going after him for sleeping with a known Holmes.

“Greg, you _dog!”_

“You didn’t even tell us!”

“If you were any good you could have just asked him to the dance while you were bonking.”

“What’s the matter, Lestrade? Not persuasive enough?” 

“It was one time!” Greg protested, hushing everyone and looking out the door to make sure Mycroft wasn’t around. 

“Once!” he hissed. “It was one time and we swore we’d never do it again.”

“Ha!” Sherlock laughed at full volume. “Want to know something? I didn’t deduce _shit!_ I tricked you! LOL.”

“Did you just say ‘LOL’ out loud?” 

John sat down and fought the urge to buzz the nurse. 

“Darling — ” John went to pat Sherlock but couldn’t find a place to touch him where it wouldn’t hurt. “Baby, can you look at me, please? I want to make sure you don’t have brain damage.”

Sherlock shushed him loudly, and then scolded in an exaggerated whisper, “Not in front of our _friends.”_

He mumbled something under his breath, but Greg caught it. 

He was in the mood for revenge. 

“Did he just call you C12H22O11?” 

Molly blushed all the way up to her hairline. 

“What?” asked Stephen. “Is that… chemistry?” 

“What’s it stand for? I don’t take chemistry,” said Tyler. 

The boys looked at Molly, but she loyally stood her ground. Greg thought it would be funnier to have the gang find out on their own. 

Finally, Brett whipped out his mobile and googled the formula.

John thought he’d die.

“C12H22O11 is the chemical formula for sucrose, more commonly known by its household name as table — SUGAR!” exclaimed Brett. 

His brows shot well above his glasses. 

“Sherlock’s pet name for you is the chemical formula for _sugar?”_

Greg’s ass was saved because everyone turned on John like a pack of hyenas. 

“I told you having names that equate people with animals was stupid,” Sherlock pouted, pawing — literally pawing like he’d forgotten how to use his hands — at John’s shirt. “We wouldn’t have these humiliations if you’d listen to me.”

John chose to ignore it and not argue with him. 

The lads and Molly left an hour later when the nurse came to chase them away, but she recognized John.

"Oh, thank God you're here!" she said, going so far as to wheel in another bed for him to sleep in. "He was here last week without you and it was awful!"

Sherlock had drifted off to sleep. John moved the hair out of his face.

John knew about confidentiality agreements, but he also knew people. If the nurse thought John already knew about Sherlock's hospitalization, there was a chance he could needle her for information.

"Well, I'm sorry about Sherlock's behavior. He never feels well when that happens."

The nurse paused, looking at him sympathetically. She patted him on the shoulder.

"I imagine he felt right as rain till he passed out, but the OD and the withdrawal symptoms are never easy. My uncle is the same way. He's the meanest villain alive when the cold sweats and the shakes come on."

John blinked. 

She finished up his bed. "I'm the nurse on duty, Mr. Watson. Let me know if you need anything. Mr. Holmes's brother told me to list you as family, so you can stay here until we need the bed space." 

How was she so happy? How was she saying it so easily?

"Thank you. I... appreciate it."

When the young nurse left, John looked down at Sherlock. 

If John didn't know he was such a prick, he'd say he looked almost adorable in his sleep.

Sherlock Holmes, a junkie? It couldn't be. He would have told him.

Sherlock didn't _lie,_ not to John unless he was experimenting on him. 

He looked at Sherlock's arms where the IV met the vein. Smooth, raised skin like puncture wounds peppered and discolored his flesh. Some were old scars, others fresher. One looked almost raw.

How the hell hadn't he noticed?

John collapsed in his bed, tenting his hands over his nose.

And he'd overdosed? The week they were separated? How many times could he fail the person he loved most?

Mrs. Hudson was right: Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to die, because John Watson wouldn't let him. 

He stood over his body, grasping his hand. 

"No matter what it takes," he said, "I'm with you till the end of the line."


	22. Hail Martha, Full of Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to handle Sherlock with a firm hand. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson contends with Cynthia.

Mrs. Hudson found John in the hospital chapel, a tiny room hidden in the corner of Saint Bartholomew’s basement across from the mortuary. It wasn’t much, but the walls were painted in bright, if not altogether graphic, depictions of the crucifixion. Small rows of candles sat in front of a statuette of the Virgin Mary, and she put five pence in the donation box for a match before going to sit by John. 

“I thought I’d find you here,” said Mrs. Hudson. 

She struck the match across the pages of the liturgy and lit a joint she took from the biscuit tin she kept in her purse. The chapel was the only place in the hospital without fire alarms, probably to accommodate for the candles. 

“Would you like one?” offered Mrs. Hudson. 

“No, thank you.” John smiled at her but went back to staring at the front of the room.

“He’s asleep again?” 

“Yeah,” said John. “I think they’re slipping him a little more sedative than they need to, but he’s such a baby when he’s hurt I almost can’t bring myself to call them out on it.”

“I agree,” said Mrs. Hudson, exhaling a cloud of hempy smoke. “I remember when I first began working for the Holmes family. Mr. Holmes offered me loads of money, loads. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why, and then three weeks in that same little seven-year-old who took down my husband staggered through the kitchen door with a sniffle and an attorney and started penning people out of his will who he said didn’t show him enough consideration.”

She looked at John.

“I hadn’t brought him his chicken soup fast enough.”

“Sherlock had a will? At seven?”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. “He said he deduced he had Chikungunya virus and that he wasn’t long for the world. I suppose he thought he was too flamboyant to come down with ordinary aches and fevers. Holmeses will either forget they have a broken bone for three days or catch the flu and run you ragged with fanciful claims of yellow fever. There is no in between.”

John hung his head, smacking his lips. “It’s a wonder they haven’t gone extinct.”

“Too stubborn to die, I imagine,” said Mrs. Hudson. 

“Yeah,” John twisted his hands, looking up towards the pulpit. “I hope.”

She took off her coat and settled it around John’s shoulders. The air was so damp in the basement. He mouthed a thank you while she fussed over him, offering him snacks and water.

“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”

John nodded. He felt like a moron for not seeing it sooner. “So which is it? Heroin or cocaine?” He buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his tired eyes. “God, I hope it’s not both.” 

Mrs. Hudson rubbed his back. 

“It’s cocaine, usually. He says heroin makes him sleepy, slows him down too much.”

John huffed.

“That _would_ be what he’s concerned about. Mrs. Hudson, don’t get me wrong, but where the hell are Sherlock’s parents? Don’t they care at all their son is hospitalized for the second time in a week? Why haven’t they sent him to rehab for God’s sake, come to see him, anything?”

Mrs. Hudson took a drag and exhaled through the nose. 

“You mustn’t be too hard on them. Sending Sherlock to rehab didn’t work when he was thirteen, fourteen, or when he was fifteen. In fact, by then he’d trained himself to pick the locks on the drug cabinets. He was using harder than ever there. As far as why they aren’t here…”

Mrs. Hudson trailed off.

“They’re afraid of that boy and he knows it. I can’t decide who he hates more because of it, them or himself.”

“Afraid?” asked John incredulously. “Why would they be afraid of their own son?”

“Sweet soul,” said Mrs. Hudson, “not everyone sees Sherlock the same way as you or I.”

“But he’s _good_ ,” insisted John. “I know it.”

“Yes, he is. He is a good man and a fine son to those who treat him like one, and he certainly isn’t a sociopath.” Mrs. Hudson scowled. “That’s what one of Emmaline’s damned doctors called him once. He never forgot it, his own mother paying someone to call her boy inhuman. He still calls himself that sometimes to keep the rest of the world at bay.”

“Emmaline?” asked John.

“Sherlock’s mother,” said Mrs. Hudson. “He’s smarter than her, smarter than the whole lot of them if you ask me, and Emmaline isn’t used to that. People fear what they don’t understand, John, especially smart people. They’re so unused to not understanding, but tell me, who could ever comprehend Sherlock?”

Mrs. Hudson didn’t wait for John to answer.

“It doesn’t matter who gave birth to him. That boy is my son, and my son isn’t a sociopath, high functioning or otherwise.”

“He isn’t a sociopath,” John agreed. “But I guess it is an easy mistake to make. He is an arsehole.”

“Completely,” agreed Mrs. Hudson.

“But he’s our arsehole.”

“Without question.”

They sat for a moment, doing nothing but watching the shadows the dancing candlelight threw against the walls. There was something eerie about the chapel, probably because it was so close to so many dead bodies, but there was something peaceful about it too. Mrs. Hudson thought Sherlock, who detested religion, would have liked it. For a boy who said he hated illogic and pointless dribble, he calmed every Halloween when he got to watch macabre movies like _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ or _Corpse Bride._

The dead dog was somehow always still alive in those. 

“I got you something,” said Mrs. Hudson. 

She dug through her purse and pulled out a small, velvet box.

“I found it in the gift shop.”

John opened it, unwrapping the token from the carefully folded cloth. Inside he found a small, bronze pendant in the shape of a woman. She held her hand over her stomach and wore a Mona Lisa smile hidden under the creases of her veil. He turned it over and read the inscription. 

“Mother of John,” he read, turning to face Mrs. Hudson. “This is Saint Elizabeth.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hudson. “If you don’t have your mother, you have me. And if for some reason you don’t have me, you’ll always have Elizabeth.”

She smiled. 

John bit his lips and pressed his fingers to his mouth. His breath shook.

“Thank you,” he said, and he really meant it.

“Don’t,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Would you like me to put it on you?”

John nodded, thankful for a reason to turn away so he could get his face under control. 

“He’ll snip at you when he sees you wearing it,” she said as she opened the clasp and adjusted the chain around his neck. “Sherlock can’t stand organized religion. He says that God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up…”

“...dreamt up by inadequates who abnegate all responsibility to an invisible magic friend,” John said along with her, their blasphemous words echoing against the walls and the saints.

They looked at each other and busted into a laugh, peeking at the stairs and cracking up all the more at their worry someone had heard and taken it out of context. 

Mrs. Hudson sobered up, shaking her head. 

“You two are a pair, aren’t you? You’re the last person I would have picked, but somehow you’re perfect in every way. I wonder why that is…” 

“Yeah,” said John. “I tried to figure it once myself, and as far as I can tell, he likes someone who doesn’t take shit, and I like someone who doesn’t give a shit. Altogether it makes for a pretty shit-free relationship,” he shrugged. “At least for the most part.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Hudson paused. 

“John,” she said. “Maybe if he saw you getting help, he’d be more inspired to get it himself.”

“Help?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

John did know what she was talking about. His shakes, while better than they had been, were plateauing into a regular rhythm. He hated them, hated stressing and waking Sherlock in the night. He hated the pitied looks his friends gave him when they saw them coming on. He hated choking on panic and the way his mind flooded with images of worst-case scenarios in which his friends grew tired of him and Sherlock abandoned him, or the usual nightmare where his mother walked in on them and he pushed Sherlock away in a knee-jerk reaction. He’d never do that in real life, but it was funny in a way. His worst fear transformed from his mother’s reaction to his own. 

John Watson would never be a coward again, not as long as he lived.

“I’ll… I promise to think about it, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Don’t just think,” she said. “Act. If you don’t, it’s the first thing he’ll go for when you confront him. All addicts go for the throat when cornered. There’s no shame in it, John, just like there isn’t any shame in it for Sherlock. It’s okay to ask for help.”

He nodded.

“You’re a good mother,” said John, holding up his pendant. “You really are. I’m glad we’ve got you.”

Mrs. Hudson feigned modesty and took back her coat. 

“You flatterer,” she said, sliding on her sleeves. “I’m no saint, but I suppose I’ll do.”

John stood with her and kissed her cheek.

“Drive safe?”

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

The drive from Musgrave Hall in Northumberland to Conan in Wiltshire took an ordinary person about six hours.

Mrs. Hudson drove it in four. 

However, on the trip back, she chose to slow down through Nottingham. She texted Mycroft for the address and then parked her car in a secure location before taking a taxi into John’s neighborhood. 

John lived in an area of Nottingham known as The Meadows in a small, two-story house crammed between other identical houses, though most of the first floor was taken up by the garage. It was red brick with a white door covered in scuff marks at the bottom like the people who lived there were accustomed to kicking it open when carrying in groceries. 

She stood on the radburn style walkway and adjusted her skirt. 

She hoped she wasn’t making things worse instead of better, but she’d eavesdropped on John’s phone call to his mum and knew that Sherlock would be heartbroken if John was forced to leave Conan. If someone didn’t intervene, Sherlock’s recovery would be over before it began, and so she stepped to the door and knocked. 

________________________________________________________________________________

Truth be told, John didn’t mind the nurses sedating Sherlock because he felt sorry for them. He actually didn’t mind because he didn’t know how he was ever going to face him. John wished he were the one with the jacked-up face. Maybe then Sherlock wouldn’t be able to read him. As it were, he knew he couldn’t keep his boyfriend drugged forever. Hell, that was the opposite of what he was trying to do, so he called out the staff for unethical behavior and waited patiently at Sherlock’s bedside. 

Two days had passed, and the swelling in Sherlock’s face had gone down everywhere except his broken cheek. Pain painted him purple and blue, and his nose, while on the mend, looked like it’d gone through a meat grinder. 

When the sedation wore off, Sherlock stirred and tried to push himself up.

_“Bugger.”_

“Don’t,” said John, adjusting the bed and bringing the pillow up under his neck. “They backed off on your pain medicine so you ought to be able to have a half-way coherent conversation now.”

His skin paled green. “I don’t feel like doing anything except puking.”

John kicked the wastebasket closer. 

“Do you want me to ring a nurse?”

“What do I want a nurse for? I’ve got my doctor right here. If he gets a little better at chem —”

Sherlock cut himself off, clutching at his ribs. 

Making barbs required breathing, and breathing _hurt._

“They said you could leave after three days, but I disagree. I’m gonna go ask for a doctor.”

“Wait.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand, even though doing so made him feel like being run over. “Stay here. Lay down with me. Please.”

John faltered. Sherlock never said please except in the most extreme of conditions. John forgot all about the doctor and kneeled at his bedside, holding the back of Sherlock’s hand to his cheek. 

“I can’t, baby. You’re hurt. I couldn’t even kiss you goodnight when you were doped up without you wincing in your sleep.”

_Doped up. Poor choice of words, John._

“I don’t care.” He tightened his hand around John’s. “I missed you.”

The words moved him. What was it Sherlock said when they first met? That sometimes he didn’t talk for hours, even days on end? But Sherlock missed him when he was away, carried on conversations, and became irritated once he realized John had left. It seemed like Sherlock never stopped talking to him. 

“You didn’t even know I was here.”

“Exactly. I tried to talk to you in my mind palace, but I couldn’t find you.”

John could never deny him anything. He kissed the back of his hand, his knuckles, his individual fingers, his palms until he ran out of places to kiss.

His hands were the least injured piece of him.

“You’re handling me like I’m made of glass.”

Sherlock tried to sound irritated, but his smile gave him away. His eyes watered, but John knew it was from the injury and not emotion. He took a tissue and went to wipe it away, but Sherlock flinched and broke the spell. 

“For God’s sake, John!”

“And _that_ is why I’m handling you like you’re made of glass.”

He settled into the pillows. “What happened? I remember Molly and the lads, but I think I was dreaming.”

“You weren’t,” said John. “Do you remember Archie Moffat? That kid who’s so fond of you? He saw Thomas and his thugs jump you and came to find me. The lads fought off the other guys.” John’s voice dropped. “But I handled Thomas.”

Sherlock thought he looked absolutely murderous.

“I thought you said I deserved a beating for burning Kitty.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it! I just said it for, you know,” John floundered. “Moral reasons! She’s a terrible person, and at any rate, you didn’t deserve a beating like that. They could have killed you.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Morals.” His eyes darted down to John’s necklace and he picked it up, examining it in his fingers. “Who looks worse, me or Riley?”

“Oh, you unquestionably, but at least you still have all your teeth.”

“Thomas doesn’t?” Sherlock giddied at the prospect. 

“Aw, hell no. I may have…”

_Hit him so many times I thought I busted a bone in my knuckle, but it was really just one of Thomas’s canine teeth?_

“It’s possible,” John attempted, “that I might have, well, sort of…”

“Freaked out and murdered him?” Sherlock supplied.

_A bit._

“Not all the way to murder,” John said. “Thankfully. Mike pulled me off.”

“How many hits did you get in?”

“It’s hard to say,” thought John. “I lost count.”

Sherlock laughed and immediately regretted it.

“Stop that,” he accused, swatting John’s hand. “Stop making me _laugh._ ”

“You made us laugh. A lot, actually, when you were high.”

John regaled him with stories of high as shit Sherlock, hoping it didn’t make him wish for other things that made him high as shit. 

He told him of the C12H22O11 debacle, and how he’d tricked Greg into confessing about Mycroft (God, John, why’d you have to tell me about that? That’s gross!), and about how he kept saying “I know ash! Don’t tell me I don’t!” but it sounded like he was saying “I know ass” in an American accent. He also told a rather moved Molly that she was his “best friend ever” and asked “Do you think John likes me? I saw him in my room once so I think he’s stalking me, but I’m weirdly okay with it. Is that weird that I’m weirdly okay with it?”

Ryan and Eddy had a field day antagonizing him while wingmen Tyler and Brett stood back filming the whole affair.

“What the hell am I doing in this video?” asked Sherlock when John showed him a particularly funny one in which he had crawled under the bed after insisting a colony of ants had been murdered in what he called “a quintillion homicide,” and that the most likely suspect was an “escaped aardvark last seen riding a getaway Roomba.” In the video, Sherlock’s buttocks was pointed straight in the air. The upper half of him had fallen asleep.

“Hmm?” The previously mentioned buttocks sidetracked John for a spell. “Oh, that? We weren’t sure, but I believe you said that you were ‘clueing for looks.’”

Sherlock cringed. “I can’t believe I was in that position. That looks painful.”

“Me either,” said John. “But you were so banged up no one wanted to restrain you. It seemed easier to let you free-range.”

The boys talked for hours, and all the while John tried his damnedest not to stare at Sherlock’s arm. As far as John was concerned, it’d been cut off, amputated in a terrific struggle. Anything was better than facing the truth. 

Mrs. Hudson was right. He’d have to get his shit together before he had a prayer of saving Sherlock.

Sherlock studied his face and frowned. “You’re worried. Stop worrying.”

“What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was the one expression he could manage without hurting himself too much.

“You haven’t gone back to school once. Look at you! Rumpled, unwashed clothes. Circles under the eyes. Blinking less like you’re afraid you might miss something. Your bed is wallowed, indicating tossing and turning in your sleep, not that you get much. Your hair is greasy and ruffled like you’ve been running your hands through it. Decreased attention span. And your breath.”

“My breath? I bought a toothbrush!”

“Yes, but you haven’t brushed since…”

Sherlock sniffed and calculated something impossible in his head. 

“Four-thirty today? Yet your breath smells heavily of black coffee. You never drink coffee, so you must be surviving off of the pot in the waiting area. Caffeine is the only thing standing between you and extreme fatigue. You need to rest, John.”

It was true. John was so exhausted he felt like his very bones were drooping, like they were magnetically attracted to the earth and the strain would go away if he’d just lay down. 

“I can’t argue with you.”

“That’s a first,” said Sherlock. 

John looked at the wheels on his own bed. 

“I can roll our beds close together. Maybe we can hold hands through the rails?”

Sherlock looked offended.

“Not good enough,” he pouted. “Get up here. Let me lean against you.”

“No. You’re injured.”

“Do you remember the time you left me? I’m feeling sad about that. I need comfort.”

John crossed his arms. 

He couldn’t fucking believe it.

“Are you trying to play the _guilt card on me?”_ he asked. “After your whole spiel about _forgiveness?”_

“Is it working?”

He felt his blood pressure spike.

“Sherlock Holmes, I am not getting in that bed with you and that is my final word!”

________________________________________________________________________________

Cynthia Watson poured tea into Mrs. Hudson’s waiting cup. The elderly lady across from her sat gingerly on the tattered sofa and kept commenting on what a lovely home the Watsons had, and kept asking after Harry as if she knew all about her. 

“I’m afraid I must apologize,” said Cynthia, putting down the teapot. “But I didn’t catch your name at the door.”

“Martha,” said Mrs. Hudson, blowing over the rim of her cup. Then, as if thinking better of it, she set the cup down and amended, “How rude you must think me! Inviting myself inside your home without proper introduction.” 

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Martha, Sherlock’s mother.”

Sherlock? Sherlock _Holmes?_

Cynthia became uneasy. She came to her senses long enough to take Mrs. Hudson’s hand. This woman looked too old to be a mother to a sixteen-year-old, but then again, she supposed Sarah was ninety years old when she gave birth to Isaac in the Bible, so it must’ve been possible.

Her teacup clattered in her free hand.

Damn the shakes. 

“Sherlock Holmes? John’s roommate?” she said, steadying herself. 

She cleared her throat.

“I was so sorry to hear about what happened. Are you on your way to see him?”

“The way back, actually,” said Mrs. Hudson. “We live outside of Morpeth in Northumberland. The route always takes me through Nottingham, and I wanted to stop and tell you what a lovely boy you’re raising.”

Cynthia supposed she was supposed to say something of the same nature in return about Sherlock, but she couldn’t bring herself to it.

“Yes, well, I think so. John’s a … very sensible young man.”

“Oh, absolutely,” agreed Mrs. Hudson. “I can’t tell you what a special friend he is to my Sherlock. He would have been in such a fix if John hadn’t come to help him.”

Cynthia examined the woman in front of her. Her tweed dress suit and leather pumps must’ve cost more than the monthly expenses. She seemed pleasant, though she smiled too much for Cynthia’s taste. She kept looking her over trying to find some sign of delinquency, something to explain the boy John wrote about in his blog, but she came up empty.

“Mrs. Holmes, let me be frank with you, I don’t think that John should —”

“Did you do these yourself?”

Mrs. Hudson stood and inspected the paintings hanging above the armchair. 

“Oils or acrylics? I used to dabble, but I’m not anywhere near your level.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you do much traveling? These don’t look like England.”

Cynthia gaped before collecting herself. She sat down her cup and stood behind Mrs. Hudson with her hands folded. 

“They’re just pictures of pictures, I’m afraid. My husband and I used to talk about traveling. At the time, I thought I was practicing ‘for the real thing.’ Silly of me, I suppose.”

Mrs. Hudson turned from the impressionistic swirls of jungle beaches and darkened rainforests teeming with exotic birds. 

“There’s nothing silly in that. I’m a widower myself and have been for the last nine years. It feels surreal at the beginning. You don’t really know what you’re going to do or where you’ll end up, but life carries on. You can still go explore the world, Cynthia. It doesn’t have to be over.”

Cynthia huffed. Maybe Martha Holmes in her fancy clothes with her designer handbag could afford to waste time globetrotting, but a plumber like Cynthia Watson couldn’t. She was still wearing her overalls and wellies, for Christ’s sake. She felt ridiculous.

“I’m afraid that’s not in our budget at the moment,” she clipped. 

Mrs. Hudson waved away the worry. “I don’t mean leave for Timbuktu tomorrow.”

She pointed at a wayward painting hanging just out of the sunlight. “That is what this one is, isn’t it? Mali isn’t very pretty this time of year anyway.”

Cynthia didn’t answer her, but Mrs. Hudson wasn’t deterred. 

“Your son’s going to be a very successful doctor someday. He’s kind, he’s patient — God, is he patient! — He’s such a dedicated boy he’s almost certain to succeed. You must be proud.”

“I… John _wants_ to be a doctor. He’s not one yet. That’s the only good that’s come of it, John being sent for a better education. However,” she eyed Mrs. Hudson, “I worry _distractions_ are keeping him from his studies. If his grades suffer, there’s no point in Conan at all. He’d be better off at home where he belongs.”

“John is never distracted,” scoffed Mrs. Hudson. “Why, just last week he aced his anatomy test for the third time in a row. He’s got the highest marks out of any boy in that class, and the third-highest in chemistry. Sherlock stays up all night tutoring him. He’s not a natural at it, your John that is, but he works for it, and in my opinion that’s better than being a natural.”

Cynthia stammered. She checked John’s grades from time to time, and they _were_ exceptional, she just had no idea he was doing so well, or that the Holmes boy played a part in it. 

“He never mentioned any exams. He only said the courses were difficult.”

“Oh, he studies _constantly,_ ” said Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock adores chemistry, and he has quite the newfound interest in human anatomy. The two of them must study anatomy and chemistry more than anyone else on campus, and I really have to thank you again for John’s assistance. While my son helps yours with chemistry, yours helps mine with history. Sherlock can’t stand it! I don’t think he’d try at all if it weren’t for John.”

She looked back at the paintings.

“It’s funny. They say that children inherit their intelligence from their mothers, so I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that John gets it from you.”

“From me?” asked Cynthia. “Whatever are you talking about? I’m not… that is to say, _I_ never performed well in school. If anything, Harry’s more like me academically.”

“I mean _artistically._ ” Martha straightened a painting of a terracotta warrior. “John’s a musical genius. He learned nineteen classical guitar pieces in a week. Did he tell you that?”

John joined the conservatory? He was playing posh classical now? 

Cynthia sat down. It felt like Martha knew more about John than she did. 

“I suppose there’s a lot John doesn’t tell me.”

Mrs. Hudson sat down beside her, placing a hand on Cynthia’s knee. She flinched. 

Not even Watsons touched other Watsons. 

“John’s a teenage boy. They all need a little room to grow.”

“Mrs. Holmes —”

“Hudson, and call me Martha, please.”

Hudson. A broken home? A dead father perhaps? Maybe that was it, the reason that Sherlock behaved so erratically. 

“Mrs. Hudson, doesn’t it bother you that John and Sherlock get into so much trouble? You _have_ read John’s blog, haven’t you?”

Ha! Finally, something Martha didn’t know. Cynthia worried the old woman would stroke out when she read it.

She was fishing in her overall pouch for her phone when Mrs. Hudson interrupted, “John’s blog? Sherlock sends me texts every time John updates. Though he says that John romanticizes things. You know, exaggerates a bit.”

Cynthia thought about it. Maybe John was spinning tall tales. How else were they getting out of trouble so often? 

“But the cartel at Baskerville,” started Cynthia.

“The animal shelter?” said Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock adores animals, especially dogs. He couldn’t stand to see them suffering. I’m happy he and John did something about it.”

“But they were shot at!”

“Were they?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “I don’t remember reading that, and they didn’t say anything on the news.”

Cynthia scrolled through the story, but she couldn't find any talk of guns. She could have sworn she read it. She’d been livid. 

“But they still could have been _hurt_ ,” said Cynthia. “They’re boys. They shouldn’t be taking _risks_.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Mrs. Hudson, finishing off her tea and holding out the cup for a refill. “I’m so happy they’ve settled down. John’s quit the whole business and Sherlock has followed suit. I suppose that’s why he never writes anymore.”

Cynthia looked at the blog. John _hadn’t_ updated for almost a month. 

Maybe she was overreacting? Perhaps projecting her fears from losing her husband onto her son?

“Do you really think they’ve given it up?” Cynthia asked.

She refilled Mrs. Hudson’s tea.

The old woman sipped it thoughtfully.

“This is Earl Grey,” she said.

“Pardon?”

Mrs. Hudson sat the cup down. “Sherlock says John prefers oolong. The boy’s birthday is coming up, isn’t it?”

“Yes, next Wednesday, but Mrs. Hudson, you didn’t answer my —”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Mrs. Hudson, checking her watch to leave. She stood. “The business with the Bell girl shook them both up. I’d say they’re both put off this detective business and on the narrow path. Now, I’m sorry, but I really must be going. It’s a long way to Morpeth.”

She reached into her purse and gave Cynthia a velvet box. 

“Thank you for a lovely afternoon. It’s been so nice chatting with you. I hope we see more of each other.”

Before Cynthia could refuse the gift or get in a word, Mrs. Hudson was off to a waiting cab, waving cheerily from the backseat window.

Cynthia felt like she’d been hit by a whirlwind, though Martha hadn’t done anything shocking or offensive. She didn’t know why she felt so riled up by the woman and worried that perhaps she’d been rude or acted prejudiced against her because of her son.

Cynthia looked down at the box in her hand. There wasn’t anything else to be done with it, so she opened it and took out a small saint medal. It was oval and bronze with an engraving of Saint Elizabeth on the front. On the back, it said, “Mother of John.” 

She tilted the box to the side and was surprised when a folded piece of lined paper fell out. She scooped it off the floor and read, in elegant, handwritten script, 

_Mothers always stand by their sons._

________________________________________________________________________________

Nurse Becca hadn’t worked at Saint Bart’s long, so there were a few things she hadn’t seen, and lots of things she hadn’t heard. 

Today made one of them.

“Lord God almighty,” she drawled in thick Scots, as she was prone to whenever stressed. “What the devil do you reckon that is?”

She and Nurse Puglish had searched the hall ceaselessly all evening for the awful noise, a sound somewhere between a clogged and sputtering garbage disposal and a choked out chainsaw. 

“I don’t know. Maybe one of the ventilators has blown out.”

“Yer heid’s full o’ mince. That’s no ventilator! It sounds like a bear.”

They combed the halls and rooms once over until finally, Nurse Becca grew desperate enough to check what she and the other nurses called The Gateway to Hell. She opened the door, and sure enough, she was bowled over by the sound of snoring. 

“ _Greta!_ ” she hissed. _“Greta, come quick. Ye’ve got to see this.”_

She didn’t know why she was whispering. The boys were out cold. 

Nurse Puglish poked her head in the doorway. 

“What d’ye think o’ that? The tall one’s the wee spoon.” 

John and Sherlock lay sprawled across their bed, with Sherlock's back tucked against John’s chest and their arms and legs tangled together. John’s shirt rode up all the way to his nipples, and Sherlock’s gown left even less to the imagination. Their cheeks were pressed together as they both snored to beat the band.

Becca slowly closed the door. 

“We saw nothing?” said Nurse Puglish.

“I dinnae ken what ye’re talking about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing from new a new character's point of view is difficult even if I like them, so getting in Cynthia's head was shit. She's not really a villain, but she's just such an unlikable person, I'm gonna have a hard time writing her character arc, but I gotta get in there somewhere, so it might as well be here.
> 
> Apologies to the Scottish. I tried.


	23. Cyan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This is a smut chapter*
> 
> Don't read if you don't like smut, and you don't have to read it for the story to make sense. My Mystrade (Greg and Mycroft) chapter "The Iceman Cometh" is next, but I'm posting this here by itself so it is an easy skip.

John wheeled his lover out of the elevator and down the hall to room 221. Sherlock had protested the wheelchair, protested it vehemently, but John had begged, and Sherlock couldn’t deny him anything, even if it be at the cost of his own dignity. 

“I can walk, my love. I don’t need this sodding chair.”

John kissed his cheek and kept on walking. 

He knew Sherlock only called him “my love” outside of heated exchanges when he was desperate to win an argument. 

John unlocked the door and let them inside. The room was just as they’d left it, starch with the scent of chemicals and days-old oolong sitting cold in an abandoned pot. John turned on the space heater and folded back the comforter. He gathered Sherlock under his arms and legs and carried him bridal style to the bed before tucking him between the flannel sheets. 

He stacked the blankets on top of him. “I’m going to open the window, okay? Just for a second to let the smell out.” 

Sherlock nodded and John went about cleaning the room. He carried their hospital clothes to the laundry and scrubbed the old teapot before turning to Sherlock’s chemistry set. 

“Are any of these important?” he asked.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock. “But they were time-sensitive. I’ll have to start all over, so you can dispose of those if you wish.”

John emptied the chemicals into a biohazard tub and sealed the lid. He then took a wire brush and scrubbed the laboratory and volumetric flasks till they shined. Sherlock could call Mycroft OCD all he wanted to, but he was just as particular as his brother about certain things, lab maintenance being one of them. 

When John came back, he wiped down the table and the deep freeze and placed all the flasks in the proper order. He then closed the window and sat down at the foot of their bed. 

“Would you like to take a shower?” 

Sherlock stirred. 

“You treat me like an invalid and then ask if I’d like to shower?” he scoffed. “I can’t stand, and I’m afraid if I sit down I won’t get back up. It could make for an awkward situation.”

“No, it won’t,” said John, “because I’ll be with you.”

He ran his hand up and down Sherlock’s thigh and felt him twitch. 

“... with me?” He seemed to be finishing a sentence he’d started in his mind. “You want to shower with me?”

“Why not?” asked John. “I’ve seen you naked.”

He leaned down and kissed Sherlock deeply, careful of his swollen lips. He could taste the blood. 

“I know you’ve seen  _ me _ , but I haven’t seen  _ you _ ,” said Sherlock. 

He was injured, not dead. There were a few things he knew he’d have a reaction to, and he was afraid he wasn’t ready. 

John, unperturbed, nipped at his ears. He whispered huskily, “No time like the present.”

Sherlock didn’t know how he was blushing. All of his blood was in the opposite direction.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” John let up enough to brush the curls from his forehead. “I’m not going to jump your bones while you’re injured. I just think you’d be more comfortable clean. Is it okay?” he asked. “Is it okay if I take care of you?” 

He bit lightly at Sherlock’s throat, and his arguments died there. John Watson could do what he wanted to him, any time of the day or night. 

He grunted his consent, even though the intelligent side of him screamed it was a bad idea. John would notice. He would see. But then again, what did it matter? They were already shagging (clothed), but that counted (right?) and John already knew he desired him.

John carried a chair and towels to the shower before returning to carry Sherlock. 

He unclothed him, slow and worshipfully, like every inch of him was decadent.

He kissed the inside of his thigh, the tuft of hair below his navel, his collarbone, until finally he reached his lips.

“So beautiful,” he breathed between kisses.

John, still clothed, stood up and pushed Sherlock and his chair away from the shower stream. He turned on the water and waited until the temperature was just right before sliding Sherlock under the flow.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed. The water and the thought of John overwhelmed his senses.

John went for his shower caddy and handed it to Sherlock, who was happy to have something to hide his growing erection with. John turned his back so Sherlock didn’t have to pretend to look away. He watched as his lover slowly peeled off his shirt, revealing the slope of his spine and the muscles rippling around the flex of his wide shoulders. 

He tossed the shirt aside, but kept his dog tags. 

John bent over and pulled down his jeans and underwear in a single motion, exposing his taut backside that curved from the sharp dip of his waist. Sherlock watched as the muscles in his thighs and calves popped when John switched from foot to foot to remove his socks. He looked like a young Adonis this way, even more handsome than he had before, covered in light, golden hairs.

He turned, only a light flush giving away his anxiety.

“So,” he said, shrugging his arms to the side. “Are we even?”

Sherlock worried they weren’t.

John had the body of a warrior. His shrug only accentuated his sculpted arms and tugged at the chords of muscles where his neck sloped into his shoulders. The weight he’d lost had only cut him more, rounding away at his pecs and further defining the area of his lower body where his abs met his obliques.

Sherlock no longer had to imagine what came below the V plunging into John’s pants. It was all there, larger than he imagined and nestled above a bush of dirty blond hair. 

He had to force himself to look back at John’s eyes. 

“We’re even,” he choked, fixating on the soap caught in the spiraling shower drain. “You’re not eating enough. I told you so.”

John came up behind him and took a bottle of shampoo from the caddy. He lathered it into Sherlock’s hair. 

“That’s rich coming from you.”

He said it happily, like he couldn’t imagine a better place to be, but it only served to make Sherlock self-conscious. He was strong, but so horribly slender. All the progress he made under John’s diligence seemed to have melted from his bones after only a few days of hospital. Not only that, his flesh was painted in angry reds and purples.

“Close your eyes. I don’t want you getting shampoo in them.” 

Sherlock obeyed, but when he went to wipe the water from his eyes, the edge of his elbow knocked the caddy from his lap with a clatter.

He cursed, and tried to lean to collect the items from the shower floor, but John stopped him.

“No way, not with your ribs like that. I’ll do it.”

“No, I can—”

But John was already on the case; his powerful back leg supported him on his knee while the other hiked up and showed off the curve of his ass as he leaned over it. He smiled as he collected the conditioner, the body wash, the shaving cream, and God knows what else from his personal grooming regimen. 

If Sherlock wasn’t so shaken, he would have cited it as evidence he’d missed of John’s burgeoning sexuality. 

Ever since the “bit of product” incident, he liked to rile John up that way.

John stood and set the caddy in the corner, effectively robbing Sherlock of his camouflage. John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, untangling the curls and rubbing in conditioner. It felt good. Sherlock had no idea how much he liked his scalp touched like this. He threw head back against John’s abdomen, purring. 

John let the conditioner set and took up his body wash. He rubbed soothing circles into Sherlock’s muscles, then his own. He splashed his own face before rinsing Sherlock’s hair, and then leaned his chest over Sherlock’s shoulders, reaching around to lather his boyfriend’s pectorals and abdomen. 

When John ghosted his fingers over Sherlock’s nipples, his body jolted, and he felt something hard and hot bump between his shoulder blades. 

An exclamation like pain and pleasure ripped itself from John’s throat.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed huskily. “Did I hurt you?”

Sherlock turned his head, but John only showed him his back. 

Like that was a better remedy for the situation. He had the thickest ass Sherlock had ever seen on a man.

“You caught that, huh?” he said, and Sherlock could hear the embarrassment in his voice. “I’m sorry. I really meant it when I said I wasn’t going to jump your bones, and I still do.”

John’s face scalded, but it had nothing to do with the water temperature. 

“You’re attracted to me?” 

It was a stupid question, but one he couldn’t help asking.

John came in front of Sherlock and dropped to his knees between his legs. 

Why oh why did John have to choose that position? 

Sherlock covered his groin with his hands. 

“You see but you don’t observe, Holmes,” he smiled. “Of course I’m attracted to you, but I’m not doing anything you’re not ready for.”

He stood up and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. He felt his relaxed member brush against his belly.

“I’m sorry again. I don’t have your self-control and my thoughts got away from me. I’ll finish your legs and then we can rinse and dry you off.”

John reached for the body wash when Sherlock shot out and grabbed him by the wrist.

“Wait,” he said. “Do you remember when I took your pulse?”

John nodded.

“Well, you don’t have to take mine.”

Sherlock lowered John’s hand toward his crotch. 

“I don’t have any self-control either. Not when it comes to you.”

John felt Sherlock hard beneath his hand, so much hotter and longer than he felt through his clothes. Sherlock always touched John, but it was never the other way around. He always said he wasn’t ready, always begged for understanding he didn’t have to ask for. John could have gone his whole life curious if it meant Sherlock was happy, but  _ this _ , this was all-consuming. 

He looked up into his cyan blue eyes. 

“Sherlock.” 

This was too serious a conversation to call him Babe.

Suddenly, John was terrified. Had he pushed him?

“We don’t have to do anything. I was just flirting, I swear. You’re hurt and—”

“I’m not that hurt, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And I certainly hope you weren’t just flirting, because I’m not.” 

He cupped John’s face in his hands.

“Not this time.”

The water beating at John’s back was the only thing keeping him in the present. A million thoughts spiraled in his head at once, but split into two major armies of Common Sense versus Desire battling it out for dominance.

“Baby,” he breathed, darting his eyes low, then back again. “Baby, I’ve been tested, after my last girlfriend. Have… have you?”

He worried asking this question would spark suspicion, that Sherlock, who’d previously been a virgin in all respects, would realize John would only ask such a question if he knew about his addiction, but Sherlock only squirmed.

He wanted to answer honestly, that he had been tested, that he was always tested after an overdose. Would John piece together he was a user if he told him the truth? 

“I’ve been tested,” he said plainly. “I’m negative for everything.”

“So do you want to…?”

“Do you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock. I told you before. I’m not a genius like you. You have to be —”

Sherlock, with John’s face still cupped in his hands, leaned down as far as his ribs would allow and snogged him viciously. He bit and suckled at John’s lips so hard they swelled to rival his own, and John liked it. 

Sherlock pulled away.

“— explicit.” 

John shot to his feet and kissed him, leaning over Sherlock and shielding him from the shower with his tense back. Sherlock sucked on his tongue, and he felt himself pressing into Sherlock’s belly.

That wouldn’t do. 

John dropped to his knees again.

“What are you —?”

“Can I?” asked John. “On the stairwell, you were the one who took me in hand. It’s only fair that I take you this way for the first time.”

Sherlock felt his blood spike with anxiety. 

What if he didn’t like it? What if he  _ did? _

Or worse. 

What if John didn’t?

“You don’t have to,” he said, but his body betrayed him. Even his voice exuded lust.

“I know,” said John, pressing Sherlock’s knees apart. “I want to, but only if you’re ready. I’m already in the shower. I can cool off any time.”

He seemed to notice his hands, acting on their own accord, and pulled back, but Sherlock stopped him. 

“I don’t want you cooling off,” Sherlock said. “Not when things are getting steamy.”

Fuck ready. He wasn’t afraid as long as it was John. 

He didn’t need further encouragement. 

He bit at the insides of Sherlock’s thighs and kissed lightly the farther up he went until he heard Sherlock’s breath hitch in his throat. 

He looked up as his lover one last time.

Sherlock's fingers clutched at the seat of the chair. 

He nodded. 

_ Go ahead. I trust you. _

John took him in his mouth, grasping at his base and bobbing his head.

Sherlock felt himself hit the back of John’s throat and let out a half-strangled moan, arching his back off the chair. It hurt his ribs, but it didn’t matter. Everything hurt, but like at any moment he would break through to something wonderful.

He took his hands off the chair and fisted one in John’s hair and dug the nails of his other hand into John’s neck muscles. 

John moaned around him, and he wished he wouldn’t stop. His hips began jerking, and John adjusted his rhythm so that they drew apart and came together at the same time, doubling the friction. The longer it went on, the more erratic the movements became until he tried to push John away. 

“Too… too close now,” but John didn’t let up until the light blinded him. 

He felt like a pulse was beating in his abdomen, like he was rung out and happy about it.

John rested his cheek against his inner thigh. 

“That okay?” he panted. 

Sherlock could barely speak. “Don’t be smug,” he finally choked out. 

“I’m not,” said John, his voice vibrating painfully close. “I’ve never done that before. You’re a first time for me too. I want to make sure it was okay for you, better than okay, but I might need practice.”

_ Way better than okay. _

“Switch places with me,” said Sherlock, attempting to stand, but John pressed him down.

“No,” said John. “You’re still hurt. This morning is all about you.”

“But…” Sherlock trailed off. He felt incredible, but guilty. John would have to take himself in hand if he didn’t do anything.

The thought did things his body wasn’t ready for again, not so soon. 

“There’s not a score between the two of us,” said John. “Making you feel good makes me feel good.”

“But you said it was fair because of the stairwell.”

“Maybe,” admitted John. “But this is different.”

“No it isn’t.”

John rose up and kissed him. He could taste himself on his tongue. 

When he broke away, he said, “Let that be your motivation to get better, Sherlock Holmes. Until you’re well, you’ll never win an argument. Not on that front.”

John turned off the water and dried Sherlock with a towel. He wrapped one around each of their waists and carried him to their room. 

They laid together for hours. 

Sherlock didn’t look at the murder wall once.


	24. The Iceman Cometh, and the Iceman Goeth Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanna thank Spring Onion for editing the beginning of this for me before I went rogue and added 12 pages without telling her. I apologize for the shit storm that is my story. I would like to apologize for my OCs and everything else.
> 
> Now:
> 
> Mycroft must contact Greg when Jim Moriarty escapes Sherrinford on Eurus's orders, but the two of them can't stop breaking each other's hearts.  
> John learns something about Uncle James he didn't know before, and Eddy steps up to be the best friend he can be and realizes he may have misjudged Eliza Hardgrave.
> 
> Big-ass summary.

Coach Goalla blew the whistle so loud it rattled around Greg’s eardrums. It was a week before the start of the season, and Coach was determined to make it better than the last, even if it meant working the lads with newfound cruelty.

“Haul ass, you rat bastards! I want five laps around this track, and I want each of ‘em under a minute. Stephen! Pratheesh is already halfway around, have you got lead in your shoes?”

Stephen sassed back in Telugu, which earned him a slap in the back of the head and seven extra laps. Any other boy would have only gotten three, but because Stephen and Pratheesh were his sons, he was particularly hard on them.

“Five laps,” Ryan panted when he wasn’t too busy trying not to die, “in five minutes?”

“Who’s he…” Tyler quickly pulled to the grass and puked. 

Ryan jogged in place until he finished and checked to make sure Coach was still laying into Stephen. 

“... think we are?” continued Tyler. “Bloody Usain Bolt?”

Greg breezed past them. Out of everyone on the team, he and Pratheesh were the most athletic, followed by Mike who surpassed them in strength. 

“Come on, boys,” he ran backward and beckoned with his hands. “It’s only a morning jog.”

“Morning fucking— He says that like we haven’t been tortured!”

Coach socked it to them first step on the pitch. 

Power stepping, catch and drives, explosive tackling, you name it. None of the drills were hard, but the sheer number of drills was staggering

“If I never pass and realign again it’ll be too soon.”

“That’s not even strenuous!” Greg called back.

Pratheesh, who led the pack, fell back enough to order, “Less talking. More running,” before pulling off again. 

“Oi! You’re not the captain!” 

Tyler meant it to come out menacing, but he’d lost his second wind and was well on the way to losing the second half of his breakfast burrito. 

“Bloody Pratheesh. Bloody Prat-theesh, more like,” Ryan grumbled. 

“Guys,” Greg said, “it’s fine. He’s right. We’ve got to get serious,” and he shot off well ahead of them.

Ryan and Tyler nodded at each other and focused on breathing before shooting off themselves. 

While they wouldn’t take orders from Pratheesh, they would Lestrade. Anyone on the team would, a major reason why Greg was captain even though Pratheesh was the better player. 

Where Stephen was timid but likable, his older brother was boisterous and condescending. He always pretended to know more than anyone else in the room, though he’d dialed back considerably since “The Foot” incident. 

Pratheesh tutored biology with Molly after school and had tried to “correct” her explanations of polymerase chain reactions in front of a student. For her, it was the final straw. She called in Sherlock who, without the supervision of John and at the goading of the boys, had deduced the shit out of Pratheesh straight away.

“You wear shoes two sizes too large for you,” Sherlock had said, “probably due to the discomfort caused by your athlete's foot, but also under the assumption ladies believe that rubbish about big feet, and at least for three of your teammates' girlfriends, it seems to be an estimation that’s working for you.”

“Can you imagine if he’d been captain?” said Tyler after his final lap. He collapsed into the grass while Ryan brought them both water. “It would’ve torn the sodding team apart!”

“At least Anderson finally got a taste of his own medicine,” Ryan shrugged.

Coach blew the whistle again, nevermind Stephen still had six more laps to run. 

“If you’ve got enough air to gossip, ladies, you’ve got enough air for medicine balls.”

The team groaned and shot Ryan and Tyler dirty looks.

The two of them never could shut up.

Greg usually paired with Stephen who was around the same height, so he was surprised when he felt someone at his back passing the medicine ball. 

“Stephen?” he said. “Holy hell, that was the fastest I’ve ever seen you run, mate! I’m proud of you!” 

Stephen didn’t answer, and Greg assumed he was too winded and dehydrated for conversation. It wasn’t until twenty passes in that he noticed Stephen still dragging about the track. 

He turned, and standing there in rugby shorts was Mycroft Holmes, his socks pulled over his knees. 

It was a good thing Coach blew the whistle for push-ups, because Greg dropped on the spot.

“Mycroft?” he rolled over on his belly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?

He  _ looked _ like he was attempting to do a push-up, but Greg couldn’t be sure. 

Perhaps the drills had got to him.

He popped his head above the boys to make sure Coach was still harping at Stephen.

He dropped back into the exercise. “Why are you wearing Farrnon’s jersey?” 

Ben Farrnon, who had the most spotless attendance of any man on the pitch, hadn’t shown for practice. He was around the same build as Mycroft and had the same rusty hair. 

Mycroft shook to the ground, then shook back up again. His arms didn’t look like they could handle the strain.

“I… need to… talk,” he huffed, “to you privately.”

“And you couldn’t send an agent to kidnap me because…?” 

Greg must’ve done eight push-ups for every one Mycroft attempted.

“There’s a mole,” his voice quaked with exertion, “in MI6. Until we can figure out who it is, I’m afraid this  _ damned legwork is fucking required.” _

Greg froze mid dip. 

Mycroft didn’t  _ swear. _

He looked over at the man, the powerhouse of the United Kingdom himself, sweating red in the face. His bum was pointed straight in the air like he couldn’t figure the mechanics of the exercise.

“Are you… struggling to do a  _ push-up?” _ asked Greg. “I thought you said you were doing the exercises I sent you.”

“I said I got them, I never said I did them,” said Mycroft.

“But what about working up a sweat?”

“I sweated just looking at them.”

Coach blew the whistle again, but he delayed the order mid-tirade at his youngest son. 

“Punch me in the face,” said Mycroft.

“Punch you?”

“Yes, punch me in the face. Didn’t you hear me?”

Greg’s eye twitched.

One second he’s disposable, the next he’s important enough to trust with a mole in MI6?

“I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.”

“Gregory, if your testosterone addled brain lacks even the capacity to throw a proper—”

Greg clocked him right in the nose.

Mycroft staggered. He pulled away his hands to reveal an absolute gusher. 

“Thank you, Gregory.” He cleared his throat, blinking away the water pouring from his eyes. “Now if you’d be so kind as to tell your coach you have to help Farrnon off the pitch and escort him to the nurse.”

“Coach!” called Greg. “Farrnon dragged his ass to practice late, but now he’s got a nosebleed! It looks serious. I’m taking him to the san!”

Coach Goalla looked like he wanted to argue, but stopped when he saw Mycroft’s face.

“Jesus! He doesn’t look right at all, does he? Alright then, off with you, Lestrade, but you better hightail it right back because we’re hitting weights for as long as you’re gone.”

The team couldn’t usher them off the pitch fast enough. 

“What gives, Holmes?” Greg asked as soon as they made it to the orchard. “Why you and not an agent? MI6 must be full of moles.”

“I can’t trust just anyone with this,” said Mycroft. He had his head tilted back and his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not even sure I can trust you after your little slip-up.”

The slip-up, as Mycroft called it, harkened back to Greg’s date with Dorian at the Diogenes Club, when he’d been off dancing instead of watching Sherlock.

“I wired you back all the money. I felt fucking awful.”

“As you should. If that Phillip Anderson hadn’t found Sherlock on the stairs my brother would have died, all because of you cavorting with the French.”

While Greg did feel guilty for leaving an emotionally unstable drug addict unsupervised, he also felt like it  _ wasn’t his bloody fault. _ Sherlock could have overdosed in his room with him right outside the door and he wouldn’t have known!

“Subtext,” mumbled Greg.

Mycroft continued. “As it stands, I need you back in my employ. Anyone within MI6, the Secret Service, the CIA, or even any of the agencies nobody knows about is too great a security risk. I need someone with your skillset.”

“Me?” said Greg, straightening. “You think I have a skill set? Like as a spy?”

Mycroft made a pained face. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Do you remember our conversation about how Sherlock never pays any attention to you?”

Greg frowned. “He knows my name now!”

“Good,” said Mycroft. “Because I want you and Sherlock to become very close friends.”

Greg stood silent as the wind scattered the leaves at his feet. 

“Myc, it’s not her, is it?”

He nodded. 

Mycroft stared into the distance as a storm gale carried clouds over the horizon. 

“Her name means ‘east wind,’” he said. “My sister has god-like knowledge. I always thought her name sounded like Eris, the ancient Greek goddess of glorious chaos. She was born cursed, just like Sherlock. She can’t stand peace or loneliness, only drugs and cold cases aren’t enough to satisfy her. She wants to  _ create _ cold cases, to leave a trail of bodies. Make no mistake, Gregory, Eurus is coming, and when she does, she’ll bring with her a storm the likes of which mankind has never seen.”

Greg felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand, but the cold wind had nothing to do with it.

“But you said it was impossible! You said she couldn’t! Sherrinford is in the middle of the ocean. How could she possibly—”

“She didn’t,” said Mycroft. “But Eurus’s powers of manipulation mimic that of a siren’s. I should have known she’d take over that blasted rock.” 

He sunk against a tree, sighing.

“We’re currently vetting new guards, training them, reducing contact, but the damage is done. Eurus hasn’t escaped, but someone else has.”

“Who?” asked Greg. “Why would she send someone else and not escape herself?”

“The security on Eurus is rather… lethal. She sent someone else, someone just as dangerous, but who I didn’t perceive as much of a threat. That was my slip-up. Trusting Eurus with the minutest of details.”

Greg sat with him. The team would be furious, but that was the farthest concern from his mind. 

“You talk to Eurus?”

“You have a little sister who’s institutionalized, Greg,” said Mycroft. “Don’t you talk to her?”

Greg thought of Chloe, all alone even in a facility full of other children just like her. He tried calling her, tried writing her. He even went every Christmas though the family said it wouldn’t do anything but upset him. 

“Yeah,” said Greg. “I talk to her, but Eurus…”

Greg folded his lips. He looked so much like an actual young person, sitting with his arms on his knees in the dying grass. 

“Eurus is still my sister. I’m one of the only people who can resist her manipulations, therefore I’m one of the only people she can talk to. She can be useful as well, even more insightful about aspects of government than me. I suppose it’s all because it’s just a large manipulation game.”

“Myc,” said Greg, “The person who escaped?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “I told her about a fellow prisoner on Sherrinford, a young boy driving me spare. He was institutionalized on Sherrinford after the Americans couldn’t keep him from hijacking Guantanamo Bay. He’s committed crimes in every far-reaching corner of the globe. He calls himself some sort of ‘consulting criminal,’ much like Sherlock calls himself a consulting detective.”

He scowled. “He calls me the Iceman.”

“He’s the sixteen-year-old Napoleon of crime,” Myc continued. “It seemed only fitting he spent the rest of his life incarcerated in a Napoleonic fort. That’s what I said to Eurus, then she busted the bastard out.”

Mycroft stood and ran his hands through his hair.

Greg had never seen him this way. Mycroft, normally so prim and proper he barely moved, was fidgeting with all the nervous tells of a human being. 

Greg stood.

“Hey,” he said, placing a gentle hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “We’ll figure this out, okay? Eurus might be the smartest Holmes with an evil super-genius working for her, but you’ve got something better: two Holmeses and a Lestrade. The way I see it, we outnumber her. She’s not gonna get him, Myc. We won’t let her. John’s with him now, all the time. He’ll die before he lets anyone hurt Sherlock.”

For the briefest of moments, Greg imagined he saw Mycroft’s lips quiver. His  _ upper _ lip.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

Mycroft said it so softly if Greg hadn’t been watching the wind would have carried the words away. 

“She wants Sherlock all to herself, Gregory. She always has. That’s why she killed the first one. Sherlock wasn’t always… like me.”

He looked away, drooping his shoulders so low Greg’s hand slid off. 

“He was a warm, inquisitive child. He played with our younger sister until Trevor came along. He was the first person she murdered, and everyone since then has been either practice or an attempt to get at Sherlock. I’m  _ trying,  _ dammit! I’ve got the world’s greatest resources in my hands, but I—”

He broke off, staring at his open palms like they were woefully inadequate. 

Greg took them in his own. 

“Myc,” he stepped closer. “It doesn’t matter what happened between us. It doesn’t matter you don’t have feelings for me too. You’re my friend. I don’t want your money. I don’t want to ‘be in your employ.’ If Sherlock and John are in danger, I’ll help you. Loyalty is better than mercenaries.”

Mycroft’s worried facial expression didn’t lessen in the slightest. If anything, the corners of his eyebrows arched down and he looked even more disheartened than before. 

“Greg,” he said, slipping his hands away. “What I said on the phone with Sherlock, you have to understand, nothing is ever really private. I can’t even show signs that I like my own brother. Caring isn’t just a disadvantage, it’s also a weakness, one my enemies would exploit. I have to keep the people I care about safe, and the only way to do that is,” he took several steps back, “to hold them at a distance.”

The rain came down, battering the remaining leaves from the trees and running cold down Greg’s skin. 

The dried blood beneath Mycroft’s nose began to flow like awakened watercolors. 

“So what are we on the lookout for?” said Greg. “I take it we aren’t going to tell Sherlock.”

Mycroft shook his head. 

“The less he knows. My brother could never resist the game. The more dangerous, the better. Worse, if he knows Eurus is back and that Sherrinford wasn’t enough, I worry he’ll seek revenge. After all, “ he said, looking at Greg with something akin to regret lingering in his eyes. “He has someone to protect.”

Mycroft rubbed at the blood under his nose and turned to leave. 

“Moriarty,” he called as he made for the trees. “His name is James Moriarty, and I want him to know that I’m coming for him.”

Greg watched as he disappeared and slowly made his way to the pitch. Now was his chance to prove to Myc that he wasn’t replaceable, that he could be a good agent, that he could protect himself. 

He wouldn’t let Mycroft Holmes down again, not for a second time.

_______________________________________________________________________

Breckenridge couldn’t punish the boys too harshly, especially on top of the way Goalla was already treating them, but he could put them to good use, which is how our heroes found themselves with the detention crew in the training center polishing every grimey trophy, plaque, and taxidermied badger since Conan’s establishment in 1859. 

Tyler irreverently took two of the school's Cup Classics trophies and filled them with ice. He plunged a foot in each of them.

“Alright, lads, hand me another,” he said, and Ryan handed him a rag lathered in polish and a brown trophy that had once been silver. He could barely lift his arm, but he managed to clear away a small circle.

John and Mike cleaned the inside of the trophy case, sweeping away dust and cobwebs before dousing the glass with Windex. 

Sherlock, who hadn’t been punished, came anyway and assisted from that cursed chair John insisted he keep using. A man of the moment, he took the opportunity to slide Stephen an undisclosed amount of money if he’d sabotage the spokes. Stephen refused on principle but changed his mind after Sherlock offered every file he had on Molly Hooper.

If there was one thing he’d learned from his friends, it was that one could never have too much help in the romance department.

The regular detention crew looked on warily, unsure what to make of what the campus had labeled  _ The Notorious Nine. _ There were bushels of rumors floating around. John Watson was really an Italian mobster's son, and he’d initiated the whole lot  _ Godfather _ style. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t really a sixteen-year-old genius, but a government super-agent gone rogue, and the boys were his followers. No one was sure, but the group of them seemed able to get away with anything. 

Eddy and Brett tried to lift their arms to reach the trophies on the high shelf and simultaneously groaned. 

“Gregory Lestrade, you cheese-eating surrender monkey, what took you so bloody long?”

“Too right,” chimed Brett. “My arm’s rooted! Coach had us pumping iron for an hour.”

“We’ll be lucky if we can lift our bow arms come morning.”

Greg had long since quit with the apologies.

They fell on deaf ears. 

Pratheesh had practically been a popular man by the time Greg returned. 

John noticed a nervous-looking boy to his left, struggling to fit the correct key to unlock the final end of the trophy case.

“Let me,” said John, politely holding his hand out for the keyring before unlocking the case. 

“They’re color-coded,” said John, showing the boy. “See? There’s a green stripe on the bottom of the case to match the keys. It’s hard to see under the dust.”

“Thank you.”

The boy stared at John, stared at him enough for Sherlock to notice.

“Is that your father?” he finally asked, pointing to a photo in the case across from them. It held all of the rugby cups.

The last one was from 2007.

“My dad?” said John squinting. 

“Right there,” the boy pointed again, now walking to the sun-faded photo. It sat in front of a large trophy engraved with the writing NATWEST SCHOOLS CUP 1978.

Stephen walked up behind him. 

“The Natwest Cup? Did we win that once? My dad would give his right arm and both his legs.”

Greg coughed, having inhaled dust from an old section for the girls lacrosse team. 

“We lost to Warwick last year,” he said, beating at the air.

“And the year before that,” said Mike.

“But not the same Warwick,” explained Tyler from his spot in the ice. “When Warwick in Salisbury won, it was wholly unbearable. At least the other one was far enough away we didn’t have to listen to them boasting from the rooftops.”

Greg had been more despondent than Brett after the Hilary Hahn episode.

John looked again, closer this time. At first, he didn’t think he recognized any of the men in the picture, but the longer he focused, the more he recognized the smiling man in the middle, the one with both of his arms thrown about his teammates' shoulders as they hoisted him off the ground. 

It was Uncle James, young and unmarred. So that’s why he’d chosen Conan. He’d been a student himself, and, as it turned out, an exceptional rugby player. 

“I saw you getting out of a car with him on your first day,” said the boy again. “Is he your dad?”

John turned to look him over.

People only recognized James Sholto for one reason these days, and it wasn’t for his skill on the pitch. 

The boy was dressed in a fitted polo shirt, the front of it tucked primly down the front of his designer jeans. He held himself like a man who wanted to fight but didn't know how, his jaw jerked upwards and the rest of his body lax. He wasn’t too much taller than John and was blonde as well, but unnaturally. 

“How do you know Major Sholto?” John asked.

“I don’t,” the boy shrugged. “Is that his name? He was one of the best wingers this school’s ever had. I work on the yearbook staff. His picture is everywhere, even though it was so long ago. People like to remember pleasant things.”

He said it plainly. There was no sign of malice, but Sherlock abandoned his chair anyway and walked over. 

He scanned the boy quietly, deducing that he was a photographer and could prove useful later. He didn’t live in Kipling Hall, which was far from the sidewalks. His shoes would have been covered in more mud. Sherlock had never seen him in Baker, so he must have lived in the more central Barrie Hall. 

That struck him as a suspect.

“Sholto?” said Greg. “Sholto was your dad? The man’s a legend!”

“Bloody hell, and a man with your pedigree not playing,” said Stephen. “My dad would sell his soul to you if he knew. He’s getting desperate this year. There’s talk of pushing him out if we don’t start winning.”

The boy paled. 

“You’re not playing?” he said. “But I assumed… I just thought you would.”

“You know what they say about assuming,” called Ryan. 

The lads laughed, but the boy didn’t. 

“Major Sholto isn’t my dad,” said John. “He’s my adopted uncle. He and my dad were friends in the Army. After my dad passed away, he helped send me to a better school. I didn’t even know he attended Conan.”

John turned back to the glass. He suddenly wished he’d listened to the lads and joined rugby at the beginning of the year. He felt he owed Uncle James something, and so far his grades were the only way he’d repaid him in any form. 

He fumbled with the keys and unlocked the case.

“Do you think anyone would notice if I took this?” he asked.

The boy shrugged. “There are plenty of pictures of him. I’ll grab one from the annual room later and replace it. No worries.”

John thanked him and dusted off the picture before sliding it into his bag. Christmas was coming up and he was already going out of his mind trying to deduce what to get Sherlock. At least this way Uncle James could be out of the way. 

Detention dragged on well into the afternoon. By six o’clock, the girls sports teams were filing out of the gym, and among them walked one Hilary Hahn. 

The girls giggled at the boys, but when Hahn saw Brett, she grimaced and held her nose towards the ceiling like he was a slug, something offensive and far beneath her. 

When she rounded the corner, Brett kicked a bucket of rags over and threw the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. 

Eddy tried to joke about it, to play it off light. “Talk about having a snob's nose, am I right, Brett? If she held it any higher, the altitude would give her a nosebleed.”

“Enough, Eddy!” 

The gang froze. 

Brett never snapped at Eddy, not like that. 

“Mate,” said Mike, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine! I’m just… Forget it.” Brett shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked towards the doors. “I just want to be alone for a little bit. Is that too much to ask with you?”

If the glass doors were capable of slamming, Brett would have slammed them, but as it were, he only whacked himself in the elbow on the way out.

“Blimey,” said Mike. “I’m sorry I asked.”

Eddy sighed.

Serious Eddy was almost more confounding than an angry Brett.

“It’s not you, Mikey, it’s Hilary. He’s had it bad for her since the moment he heard her play. I thought his jaw would unsnap and his eyes would bulge out of their sockets. It was Paganini, Caprice 5 with the original bowing, and the man was done for. I don’t think he even minds if her sister plays the viola. Ever since he found out, I can’t get him to crack a decent quip. His heart’s just not in it.”

Eddy looked revolted.

“He’s not the same. I’m the one who goaded him to throw in so many viola jokes. I’d do anything to fix it for him, I just don’t know how.”

Sherlock placed a handful of buckets in the custodian’s closet and turned on his heel.

“Do you really mean that?” he asked. 

The team looked at him.

“Oh, God,” said Greg, hanging his head in his greased up palms. “Please tell me this is not another Operation: Gemini. Please, Sherlock, I’m begging you. Don’t be as mental as John.”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, he started panicking. He looked from Watson to Holmes and confirmed his suspicion that the two were a match made in benevolent hell. 

“I take it Operation: Gemini is in reference to the Hardgrave Twins?” asked Sherlock. 

“The Hardgrave twins?” said Eddy. “What have they got to do with Hilary Hahn?”

Greg’s eyes began darting around for exits.

“You can—” Sherlock looked at Ryan. “What’s the phrase again?”

“Which one?”

“The one about relieving anxiety.”

“Ah! Yes,” said Ryan. 

He’d taken it upon himself to teach Sherlock pop culture, and also, slang.

“I believe what you’re referring to is ‘calm your tits.’”

“Really?” Sherlock leaned back and drew his brows together. “And that’s not offensive?”

“Not to us,” said Ryan. “But it’s very important not to use it on anyone who has any.”

Sherlock face-shrugged. It was an acceptable enough answer, he supposed.

“Greg, you can ‘calm your tits.’ It isn’t you who’ll be on the line this time.”

Greg’s entire body went lax with relief. 

Eddy, on the other hand, shot to his feet with terror in his eyes.

_______________________________________________________________________

“I won’t do it! You can’t bloody well make me!”

The boys shoved him, his arms and legs pressed dead against the doorframe. All he had to do was enter the string section of the conservatory, waltz up to Hilary Hahn, lay it all on the line, and—

“Christ, would you stop shoving me? My arms are already spent!” 

“Let up and we’ll quit shoving,” grunted Sherlock. 

Five of them tried to move Eddy, and Sherlock joined the fray against John’s wishes. 

“You said you’d do anything to fix it!”

“You also said,” strained Greg, “that I was acting like a big girl’s blouse when I wouldn’t go out with Dorian!”

“Dorian’s harmless!” squeaked Eddy. “The girl is mental! Remember the movie,  _ The Red Violin? _ She’ll probably use my blood for varnish!” 

“I’ll use your blood for varnish,” John threatened, but he had to relent. The boys collapsed, and Eddy fancied himself Scott-free. 

But it was the calm before the storm.

“Mike?” said Tyler, and the boy cracked his knuckles and left the wall he’d been leaning against. 

“Mikey, we’re mates! You wouldn’t make a mate grovel like this, would you?”

Mike quirked a brow.

A minute later, Eddy Chen landed with a thud in Hilary Hahn’s practice room. By the time the girl looked up from her concerto, no one was around, just Chen sprawled on the floor and looking worse for wear. 

“Eddy?” asked Hilary. “What happened to you?”

He stumbled to his feet, holding the arch of his back like an old man. 

“Hello, Hilary,” his voice hitched. “A fine afternoon, isn’t it?”

Hilary held her violin away and looked Eddy from his head to his toes. She always thought him handsome and witty, but ever since he started running with the Notorious Nine, Chen was all but erratic. 

Eddy dropped the pretense and collapsed into a practice chair. 

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve had a rough day, so let’s cut to the chase. I know you think I’m funny and you fancy me.”

“What?” snapped Hilary.

“But you really ought to go for my friend Brett. He’s a good bloke, and if he wasn’t so ass over elbows for you, you’d know it. He can’t even be in the same room with you without making a fool of himself, you know that.”

Eddy waved his hand like it was a given.

“All that viola business was my idea. Brett had nothing to do with it.”

Which wasn’t entirely true, but it was a large hole they’d dug themselves into.

“Wouldn’t you like to go with a bloke you know fancies you?” asked Eddy.

Hilary was outraged. 

“Go with him? Go with him where?”

“To the Fall Ball, of course! Where do you think he’s been trying to ask you? On honeymoon? Listen, you don’t have to marry the man, but I’m willing to do anything you ask if you’ll just give him a chance. _ Please. _ ”

He didn’t mention just how much of anything he was willing to do. He wasn’t that desperate yet.

“And if I say no?” said Hilary. “What then? Are you and your mafia friends going to do me in?”

“Mafia friends?” asked Eddy. 

Funnily enough, nobody in the Notorious Nine even knew they were the Notorious Nine, except for Sherlock, who was enjoying the notoriety. 

“Are you talking about the Yakuza?” said Eddy, incredulously. “First of all, that’s Japanese. Second of all, that’s racist, Hilary.”

“I didn’t — !”

“Nevermind that,” interrupted Eddy. “I’m willing to forgive it. I’m even…”

He trailed off.

_ This is for Brett, your best mate. Do it for Yang, you selfish bastard.  _

“I’m even willing to ask Eliza to the ball!” he spat.

Hilary blinked at him.

Maybe she should have been offended at the phrasing. Maybe she should have broken her violin over Eddy’s head, or just decked him and then went to do Brett the same way, but he had her. 

Eliza Hardgrave was Hilary Hahn’s best friend, easily the only violinist in the entire conservatory capable of challenging her. With that being said, Hilary was the only person Eliza respected or treated remotely like a person. She came on too hot and heavy with all the boys, treated everyone as a subordinate, and lorded her superior talent over the rest of the violins, the cellos, and especially the violas. Eliza could play anything, and she could play it well. 

Ever since Greg asked Dorian to the ball, Eliza had been despondent. She couldn’t stand it that without Dorian, she’d obviously be alone. She desperately wanted to go, but she knew no one would ask her, no one except a tosser with the wrong idea.

Hilary could confidently say that Eddy wasn’t like that. He hardly noticed girls, and if he did, he treated them like anyone else, properly if not a little silly. And, based on his clueless answer, it seemed he wasn't into gang activity, just part of a lucky and unruly band of boys. 

Hahn conceded. 

Alright,” she said, holding out her hand, “but only,” she jerked it back, “if Eliza says yes to you. If she doesn’t, I’m off the hook, and if she does and I see you aren’t showing her a good time, if you aren’t bringing her flowers every day leading up to the ball—”

“Flowers!” exclaimed Eddy.

“— then I’m calling off the whole thing. I’ll tell Brett about this little deal and leave immediately. Understand?”

Eddy gulped.

Hilary had him by the balls, and she knew it. 

“Deal!” 

He shook her hand before he could back out of it. 

“You’ll find Eliza in the guitar room, same as Dorian. They’re fiercely protective of each other. I suggest you have your mate Lestrade text him to meet out front.”

Hell, Greg would shit on the spot. 

“Alright,” said Eddy, and he charged off to tame the shrew. 

_______________________________________________________________________

With Dorian out of the way, all Eddy had to do was stroll into the guitar room, look the she-wolf dead and the eye, and say, “Eliza Diana Hardgrave, will you go to the ball with me, s'il vous plaît?’ and that should have been the end of it. 

However, while an optimist, Eddy wasn’t a fool. 

He walked into the practice room to find Eliza sawing the shit out of Paganini. He seemed to be a favorite of her and Hilary’s. 

“Ah, Niccolo Paganini,” he said, stepping across the room. “The devil himself.”

Eliza paused. “I have always found him rather easy. It is the mediocre musician who fears the master, Paganini.”

Bollocks. 

Well, this wasn’t off to a great start.

“Um, well, you make him sound easy.”

“Because he is.”

_ Keep it together, Edwin.  _

Eliza looked him over. “I have seen you before,” she said. “You are friends with the tiny man and the Silver Fox.”

Eddy wanted to say that he’d played literally three chairs down from her since he started Conan four years ago, but she didn’t give him the opportunity. She strutted up to him and pulled him down by the front of his jersey, her bow poked severely in his adam’s apple. 

“Why has this Lestrade asked my brother to the ball? He has never shown interest in him before.”

Eddy knew for a fact that Lestrade felt  _ awful _ about leading on Dorian. He’d accidentally let it slip to his sister in French that he sincerely liked, maybe even loved, Greg. Of course, he’d been mortified when he remembered that Greg could understand every word he said, and at the very least, he’d sworn to show Hardgrave a good time.

He didn’t want to hurt anyone the way Mycroft had hurt him.

Eddy poked the bow away from his throat.

“Eliza, I can honestly say that Greg told me in no uncertain terms that he will show Dorian the time of his life. He may not like Dorian as much as Dorian likes him, but that could change. He needed a date, so he asked him. Simple as that.”

She didn’t unhand him, but glared unforgivingly like a queen about to sentence someone to the guillotine. 

“I do not like the way he spoke to my brother. Dorian is more sensitive than he lets on, and your  Grégoire insisted he only wanted to go as friends. If it does not change, I worry he will be wounded.”

In her own intimidating, French way, Eddy found the sentiment very sweet. 

“I can’t promise you they’ll fall madly in love or anything,” said Eddy. 

He sincerely doubted Lestrade would ever love anyone but Mycroft. 

Holmeses had something going for them they needed to share with the group.

“But I can promise that Greg’s a good man. He won’t push for anything dishonorable, and he won’t say anything that isn’t true.”

Eliza studied his countenance for a moment and released him, going back to the stand. She switched from Paganini to something softer, more lighthearted yet melancholy.

“Mahler Symphony Number One,” said Eddy, genuinely moved by the way Eliza played such a simple piece. “That was the first piece I ever played with the orchestra. You… make it sound so beautiful.”

She smiled, something he’d never seen her do before. “Fourth movement. The first is happier, but my heart only belongs to the fourth.”

She finished the movement and turned to him.

“You have passion for the music. This I see,” and for once her accent didn’t sound harsh or terrifying. “When you play, you are lost, and happy to be lost. You could be a great talent if you did not split your time between the bitch and the violin.”

“... do you mean the pitch? Like the rugby pitch.”

“It is what I said.” Eliza cocked her head. “I would like you to play with me.”

She reached into her folder and took out a sheet of paper. 

“Stand there,” she commanded.

She flattened her stand and laid out a piece that Eddy recognized.

“The Mirror Duet?” he said.

“Yes. Only Hilary does it decently. With you, we shall see.” 

She handed him her own violin and took up a spare. 

The two went off on the duet, a notorious piece not because of difficulty, but because the music read both ways upside down, the notes only complete when played together. It lasted only for about two minutes, but Eddy thought he did pretty good for sight-reading. 

“You play well,” she hesitated, “for a violist.”

“A violist!” Eddy had a stroke. “You think I am a violist! It’s literally a big violin! I’ve never been so insulted in my entire —!”

“Relax,” she interrupted. “I am…” She jerked her bow in the air, thinking. “Pulling your leg. It is what you do often, yes?”

Eddy’s lips pulled to his jaw and his eyebrows shot to his hairline. 

Eliza Hardgrave making a joke?

He thought about how he and the lads had excluded Sherlock before, and he wondered now if the world hadn’t done the same thing to Eliza. He hated himself a little bit for it. 

“Eliza,” he said seriously. “Do you know how a violist’s fingers and lightning are the same?”

She shook her head no.

“Because they never strike the same place twice.”

He waited, and then she laughed.

_______________________________________________________________________

Eddy strolled out of the conservatory with a grin like a crooked line scribbled across his face. 

“Did it work?” asked John, taking the man by the shoulders. 

“Hmm?” said Eddy.

“Did the women say yes, blast it!”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, we’re totally going together.”

“What? Oh, God, not you and Hilary?”

“What?” said Eddy, breaking and looking offended. “What would anyone want to go with that stick in the mud for? I’m talking about Eliza. The whole thing’s set up.”

The lads glanced at one another.

“He’s been drugged,” said Mike. “He looks out of it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and propped his arm around John.

“He isn’t drugged,” he said. He jerked his head to the side and motioned for Baker Hall. “Want to go home?”

Understanding dawned on John’s face and he laughed. Since when was Sherlock better versed in humanity than him? The idea pleased him. 

He kissed Sherlock’s jawline. “Yeah, I fancy a cuppa and a long night talking about attempted murder.”

“Do you really?” asked Sherlock excitedly.

The other boys rolled their eyes, groaning, but otherwise broke up and walked in the direction of the hall with Eddy starstruck behind them. 

“If ‘attempted murder’ isn’t code for something, then you two are officially the weirdest gross couple I’ve ever met,” said Stephen. 

“Like you and Molly are any better!”

The boys didn’t look back at Greg. He was busy trying to do the right thing.

Greg and Dorian sat in the botanical gardens outside of the conservatory. Nothing was growing this time of year. Even the fountains weren’t running. Still, the two boys had sat there for an hour talking in the cold and gazing up at the moonlight. 

“Do you really love him?” asked Dorian.

Greg leaned his elbows on his knees and twisted his hands together. 

He looked up at the night sky.

“Yes,” said Greg, “and I know it doesn’t make any sense. It’s a waste of time.”

He threw a stone into the stagnant water of the fountain, a puddle left over from the last rain. 

“Perhaps,” agreed Dorian. “But a bold man will try.”

Greg looked at the man sitting next to him. He looked like he belonged in the moonlight, so unlike the fiery-haired Holmes who looked like he belonged in the sunlight of the woods on an autumn day.

Like they had been. If only things had played out differently.

“Don’t waste your love on me, Dorian. I already gave mine away to someone else.”

Dorian leaned back on his hands.

“Love is not wasted, and it is not a finite resource.”

They sat together until Dorian got a text from Eliza and excused himself. 

“I appreciate your honesty, Grégoire, but despite what you English may think, we French do not surrender so easily.” 

He jerked his chin towards Greg. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” Greg nodded back. “See you around.”

The temperature dropped, but he leaned back, looking at the stars. 

“Beautiful, aren’t they?

Greg jumped at the sound of his voice. 

He looked up and saw Mycroft dressed as a custodian.

“Did Sherlock ever tell you our mother loves astronomy?”

He sat beside him. “Before Eurus, she used to take us outside and tell us there were a million stories in the sky. I tried to contradict her, tried to tell her there were only forty-eight, but she said those were only western stories, that I was short-changing cultures and galaxies and explorers yet to voyage.” He turned. “I was wrong then, and I was wrong today.”

He placed his hand over Greg’s on his knee. 

“I do have to hold the people I care about at a distance, but you said it didn’t matter that I didn’t have feelings for you too, and I should have corrected you.”

Greg’s breath hitched in his throat. 

“I do care for you Gregory, and more than just to hold at a distance. When I… sent you away,” he said, in reference to that terrible night after Operation: Gemini when he’d rushed Greg out like what they’d done together meant nothing. “When I swore I’d never be with you that way again, I was being a hypocrite. I can’t stay away from you, but I can’t be with you either.”

“Why?” asked Greg, but he already knew.

“It’s dangerous, Gregory. You’d be a dead man walking if you were with me.”

Mycroft saw the moonlight reflected in Greg’s eyes, sparkling in his silver hair.

_ People always do stupid things in the moonlight, _ his mother had said. 

“I’m telling you goodbye, Mr. Lestrade,” he said, leaning in to brush his lips against Greg’s. 

Greg kissed him back heatedly, passionately, like it wasn’t the most heartbreaking exchange of his life. 

He broke away. 

“You can tell me,” breathed Greg, “but I’m not done with you yet, Myc.”

“Don’t waste your time on me,” Mycroft pleaded, and he said it with as much emotion as Greg had ever heard him use.

Greg leaned his forehead against Myc’s.

“It’s not a waste,” he said. “And the bold man will try.”

He watched him walk away, and when he did, it didn’t hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this as a therapy piece, and I'm so happy with it. Nobody has said anything particularly mean, and honestly? Writing this crap storm is my favorite part of the day. I hope the plot goes somewhere and I hope it says something about me I didn't know before or helps other people come to terms with their own trauma in some small way. 
> 
> If you made it this far, thank you.


	25. Day Tripper and the Deep Blue Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one, as the name implies, is a little trippy.

Sherlock shimmied across the scratchy flannel sheets toward John’s side of the bed, but his back didn’t find warmth. Instead, when he rolled over, he found the covers thrown back and the indent on John’s pillow cold. 

He stretched, popping his back, and reached for the analogue clock ticking loudly on the nightstand. It was almost eleven AM. 

On the rare occasions he fell into a deep sleep, John didn’t wake him, but instead cooked up some excuse for Sherlock’s teachers. It didn’t happen often, but more now that his body needed to heal. He reached for the bookshelf where John always put Sherlock’s morning tea. The man was infallible, truly worthy of all of Mrs. Hudson's praise. Today, he found his oolong in a Yeti thermos instead of the usual cup. 

He unscrewed the lid and let the steam caress his face. 

Sherlock fought a sleepy smirk.

“What are you looking at?” he said to Scruff, the stuffed goat staring at him from the top of the armoire (John said mountain goats liked high places like the bloody thing was a real animal instead of an inanimate object). Sherlock threw a house shoe at it and knocked it into the clothes hamper.

He rose out of bed and shrugged on his bathrobe, scratching his backside. He flicked off the space heater before looking over his experiments and making careful annotations in the data margins. When he ran out of room, he reached over on John’s desk for a scrap piece of paper, but before he could go about mucking up John’s homework, he noticed an official green and gold seal sticking from the stack. He thumbed through the papers and found that it was a print out from the school counseling service.

John’s mother _had_ said something about therapy. 

Sherlock didn’t know why it was such a revelation to him. It was _good_ , he thought, that John was getting the help that he needed, the kind of help Sherlock couldn’t provide. He’d wanted to suggest therapy himself after so many of John’s sleepless nights, but knew John hated asking for help and didn’t want to start a fight.

Still, why hadn’t John told him? Didn’t he know he could confide in him? 

Sherlock thought about pilfering through the files but quickly put them back just as they had been on John’s desk. Sherlock had access to all the information in the world. Hell, he could order a copy— No— John’s original birth certificate if he wanted to, but this felt different.

John deserved a few secrets.

If he ever discovered the truth about Sherlock’s drug abuse, he didn’t know what he’d do. He was almost certain someone as concerned about morality as John would leave him, wouldn’t possibly be able to understand, and he felt sick just thinking about it. Would he stay only out of a sense of duty?

Somehow that was worse than leaving.

He supposed it wasn’t right to keep secrets from the man he loved most, especially since in the quiet moments without him he felt his blood sing for its old mistress, but he was high-functioning. He could handle it. He could resist. Knowing John had secrets of his own like the therapy and the guitar made him feel less guilty.

He took up his tea and made for the common room. Sherlock had never liked public spaces before, but John and the lads had the habit of meeting around lunch, and he found he enjoyed sitting in the plush armchair beside the fire. It was their spot, the place everyone on the seventh floor of Baker Hall had to walk past to get to their rooms, the place where they all had to see John sitting on his lap looking happy.

For years he’d felt so alone, felt something more akin to anger than embarrassment when he was seen sitting by himself, but those days were over now. No one harassed him anymore. No one whispered about him or snickered behind their hands like he couldn’t see (much). If anyone saw him, they assumed he was waiting on the lads. He felt invincible knowing he had the backing of people he genuinely cared about, and he found he didn’t mind their stupidity half as much as he thought he did.

The armchair in the common room was more than just a relaxing haven. It was a comfort.

He slouched, sipping his tea with his ass hanging out of the chair, when Eddy swaggered along, adjusting a bowtie and carrying a handful of sunflowers as he whistled a cheerful tune. 

Sherlock scanned him. 

He smelled of new cologne and his skin showed signs that he’d been picking at it. Most people often did, making matters worse before a date. The clothes he wore weren’t his own, but looked newer than anything Eddy typically bothered to wear. Even his old recital shoes were shined. 

Courting Eliza was part of the plan, he’d explained. Bringing her flowers was part of the agreement. It was all for Brett, he’d insisted, and Sherlock supposed that checked out. 

Eddy’s family owned some of the largest cattle ranches in Australia and were doing so well they could afford to live in Brisbane while other people looked after their stock and their son attended a private school in England. If Eddy was really interested in Eliza, he could have bought himself a whole new wardrobe instead of nicking clothes off of the other students.

However, why was he trying so hard? It was a full one-eighty from his behavior the night before. Sherlock shrugged and went with his initial deduction that, at least on a subconscious level, Eddy fancied the French hellcat. 

“If I were a good friend, I would compliment you on your snappy appearance.”

“But you’re not,” Eddy clicked his heels together lightheartedly, “so not a word.”

“Not even about the bowtie?” said Sherlock. 

“Especially not the bowtie,” said Eddy, as he straightened it in the mirror above the fireplace. “Bowties are cool.”

Although John didn’t reside in Sherlock’s mind palace, sometimes he phoned from the heart downstairs, usually to murmur those three little words nearest and dearest to John’s Sherlockian philosophy:

_Is it kind?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

Fine.

“I suppose you look as good as the next man, Chen.”

Eddy winked at his own reflection. “Eat your heart out, mate. I’m a regular catch. Besides, we can’t all be like you. I’ll bet you’ve been planning for weeks.”

“Not really,” Sherlock shrugged. “We’ve a fitting for the tuxedos the Saturday after the match, but really, I could take this dance business or leave it.”

That wasn’t true, but Eddy didn’t have to know. Not even John knew how ecstatic Sherlock felt about the ball. He dreamed about it. Once he even caught himself waltzing in his sleep.

“I’m talking about John’s birthday, you wanker! It is tomorrow, isn't’ it?” 

Sherlock’s ears rang as they always did when he fell into the white noise of his mind palace. While his body remained in the common room, his psyche broke through to the other den hidden away in his head.

He gasped from the den chair as if he were coming out of water. He bolted and ran to the nearest office. 

“Not-Real Mycroft? NOT-REAL MYCROFT!”

He realized he was sliding around in his socks. He’d never been so woefully under-dressed in his own brain before. It must’ve been a projection of his anxiety.

Not-Real Mycroft materialized against the alabaster white of the hallway. 

“Yes, brother mine?” he said, smirking with his hands in his pockets. He seemed to be deducing Sherlock, the younger Holmes panicking in nothing but a bathrobe and pajama bottoms.

“The files! Pull up the bloody files!”

“On who?”

“John! Who else?”

The files materialized like holograms in front of his face, and he tore through each one.

John’s meal preferences, childhood memories on record, sleep-talk, everything down to a cluster of freckles on his back that looked like the constellation of Capricorn. 

“Where the hell is his birthday?”

“You don’t have it on file.”

“What do you mean you don’t have it on file!”

“I said _you,”_ amended Not-Real Mycroft. “As in _you_ never bothered to learn it.”

“Impossible! How could I not know John’s birthday! How could you let me? You pompous, useless figment of my—!”

Of course, though Sherlock was busy ripping his own subconscious a new one, it _looked_ like he’d frozen. Eddy had heard John speak of it. He said it was like how some lizards freeze when confronted with overwhelming danger. Outwardly, the man was fine, but on the inside, he was calculating how to escape a predator, or worse, some disaster of his own design.

 _“No,”_ drawled Eddy, gaping and laying down the bouquet. “You bastard. You forgot John’s _birthday?”_

Sherlock snapped back to reality in a fury. It sent Eddy jumping over his chair.

“I DIDN’T FORGET JOHN’S BIRTHDAY BECAUSE I NEVER KNEW WHEN IT WAS!”

Eddy peeked from behind the chair. 

“Mate, no offense, but John spent two hours yesterday banging on about what he could get you for Christmas. If you come up empty-handed for his birthday, it’s not going to be good.”

Sherlock shot out of his chair and paced the length of the fireplace. 

Good _God,_ what could he do? 

“Well, at least you know now,” said Eddy, slowly taking his sunflowers and slinking towards the elevator. 

Chen was right! What if he hadn’t known till the moment John looked at him with that disappointed face? Sherlock made it a point never to be on the receiving end of John’s disappointed face. This could still be avoided! Not all was lost! Why, with Chen’s help, he could —

“Just where in the blazing hells do you think you’re going?” he asked Eddy. 

“Sorry, mate!” he called just before the elevator doors closed. “I’ve already got one friend’s romance to mend!”

Confound it.

Sherlock supposed he was on his own. He thought of all the things he could give John. The Martin? No, the guitar was John’s and hardly a gift. The only reason Sherlock hadn’t given it back already was because he was waiting for the right moment. 

Dinner? No, that would be too ordinary! John wasn’t _ordinary._ He was a man of class. That and he typically preferred pub food which only upset Sherlock’s stomach. 

He snapped his fingers. 

He had it! 

When John surprised him, he’d meshed together their conflicting interests. All he needed to do was figure out how to do the same with John.

He raced back to the room, sloshing the tea as he went. He slipped once and landed flat on his back. His ribs screamed in agony, but now was no time to let something as ridiculous as an internal injury slow him down. 

The posters above John’s bed betrayed points of interest both old and new. There were Rugby Union posters, pictures of his family (mostly Harry), and framed vinyls from bands like All That Remains, Our Last Night, and Valley of Wolves. There was also the Martin unbeknownst to John and hidden under his bed bearing the signature of the band Motorhead _._

Sherlock whipped out his phone to see if any of the members of the band were still alive, but was disappointed to see most of them weren’t. 

So he couldn’t arrange for John to meet his idols. That was out. What else? 

John didn’t like rugby enough at this point to want to meet any famous rugby players. He liked the newer bands well enough, but they were all American, nowhere near close enough for him to fly out by tomorrow. 

“Come on, think of something!” 

He pressed his fingers to his temples, searching the mind palace, but all he found were cold files and useless bits of information.

“If I may,” said Not-Real Mycroft, seemingly walking out of the armoire and studying the stuffed goat in his hand, “this doesn’t seem to be a problem for the mind.”

“What else do I have?” asked Sherlock, desperate enough he was willing to try anything.

“Close your eyes, Sherlock. You know what to do.”

His hallucination dematerialized. How the hell he was seeing Not-Real Mycroft sober he didn’t know, but the nagging fear that he was out of his mind (rather the opposite, ironically) seemed miles away. 

Being mental like this did not make him like Eurus. 

Eurus only ever used her gifts for herself.

This was for John.

Sherlock laid back on the bed and squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed his temples, thinking and thinking until at last he felt something like sunshine warming against his skin, and when he opened them, he stood and found that it was sunshine.

He was standing in an open field overlooking the ocean. The chalk-white cliffs of Sussex stood out against the blue water, and thousands of bees swarmed overhead, but he wasn’t afraid. In the distance, he could make out bee boxes and a small, stone cottage overgrown with vines. A vegetable garden grew outside, and the figure of a man sat sipping tea at an ironwork table. 

Sherlock recognized the place immediately. 

“Why are we at Grandfather's?” 

He turned to ask Not-Real Mycroft, but he was nowhere to be found. He called out for him, again and again, but wherever he was, apparently, his brother did not exist.

He made his way down the curving ravine, wondering once again if his mind palace was becoming more detailed or if he was going insane. He summoned his files for childhood memories of Sussex, but those didn’t appear before him either. 

He pressed his fingers back to his temple.

“That won’t work here, baby.”

He whipped toward the garden gate.

“I’d offer you a cuppa, but I saw you spilled most of it in the hall. You could always just tell me you don’t _like_ oolong.”

His eyes widened and his breaths became short.

“John?” he said.

And it was John, standing among the honeysuckles and rhododendrons like he’d always been there. His skin was darker like he’d been in the sun. His tan lines cut off around his sleeves and on his thighs where he wore rugby shorts when playing sevens with the lads. His hair was more golden like Sherlock imagined it was in the summer months instead of the fall and winter. That’s when he realized...

_This doesn’t seem to be a problem for the mind._

“Not-Real John?” he asked.

The figment smiled, his cheeks pressing underneath his eyes in a look of pure adoration. 

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

He walked up to Sherlock, walked right through the gate, and put his hand over Sherlock’s heart. 

Sherlock covered it with his own. He felt so real. He couldn't remember ever being able to touch his hallucinations before. They could touch him, but never the other way around. 

“I’m… in my heart,” said Sherlock. He studied the scenery. “This isn’t like the mind palace.”

“No,” said John. “You always have a fire in the den at the mind palace. It’s always cold, always winter. It’s never winter here. Here is where you keep all the pieces of yourself, even the parts that aren’t ‘useful’.”

He dropped his hand from Not-Real John’s and stepped away, looking back towards the ocean. He could even make out red and green sailboats, just like the one his grandparents used to take him sailing on. Mycroft never came with him to Sussex. He couldn’t stand the water and detested the country. 

“So you’re just another figment? You aren’t really him.”

“No,” John said, “but I’m honored you’ve put me here. Your heart is so beautiful, even more brilliant than your mind.”

He didn’t try to touch Sherlock again, but he did motion for the two of them to sit in the grass. 

“I’m not him, _obviously.”_

Sherlock cringed. “You even said that like me.”

“Of course,” he answered, shrugging and pulling his crossed legs to his chest. “I’m John as you see him, but I’m still mostly you. You’re wrong about a lot of the ideas you have about him. What do you think John would say if he knew you thought he’d leave you over something as stupid as an addiction?”

“It isn’t stupid!” Sherlock snapped, and it hurt because for the first time he’d acknowledged it as more than something he had under control. 

Sherlock finally said, “I’ll bet you think you’re cleverer than him.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” said Not-Real John. “You think you’re cleverer than him.”

“Not anymore,” sighed Sherlock. “John’s got bounds on us. I don’t know what I’m going to do. John would never struggle coming up with a grand gesture like this.”

“Yeah,” said Not-Real John. “He’s really good at those.”

They sat for a moment, flexing their fingers in the damp earth. 

“I wish you’d stop calling me that, by the way.”

“Calling you what?” asked Sherlock.

“Not-Real,” said the figment. “This place isn’t like the mind palace. The mind palace is cut off from your heart, but your heart isn’t cut off from your mind. You can call it a memory technique all you want to, but we both know this goes a little beyond that.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, but curled in on himself. 

“You aren’t crazy. Everyone needs a place to retreat to when they’re hurting.”

“I’m not hurting.”

The figment looked at him with that same _You wanna go right now, boy?_ look John gave him whenever he was about to lay down the law on the amount of shit he was spewing. 

“Okay, fine,” Sherlock sulked. “What do you want me to say? I’m scared? I’m afraid I’m going to mess this up less than two weeks in because I couldn’t be bothered to ask my boyfriend the most basic questions partners are supposed to ask each other? He asked me mine. He even saved it in his phone! What was I thinking?”

“About a case?” said the figment. “Like John knows you always are?”

“But that’s not good enough! I need to be better. I need to think about other people.”

“Then do,” said the figment. “And you already do. That’s the whole reason I exist, because you think about John and you know him. That’s why I’m as close to real as any of your hallucinations will get. Molly’s here too, and Mrs. Hudson. You pay attention to us.”

“Obviously not enough,” Sherlock groused into his forearms. 

He sighed. “What’s he gonna do when he finds out the truth?”

He rolled back the sleeve covering his arm. The track marks existed even here.

There was nowhere he could go where the scars wouldn't own him. Brand him. Claim him. 

The figment of John closed his hand over the marks, warm and rough like John’s real skin.

“Don’t make me quote the movie. I know you hate it when I quote the movie.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Yeah, well, the end of the line is decidedly more powdery than I bet John was expecting.”

“Don’t be daft,” said the figment. “These aren’t the marks of a man who snorts.”

“Now I know you’re not real,” said Sherlock. “John would never joke about this.”

The figment sobered up quick.

“Then get help,” he pleaded. “Tell John the truth. That’s all he wants at the end of the day, to know that you trust him. You know everything about John, even the things he wishes you didn’t, but you haven’t told him anything. The addiction, Eurus, Victor Trevor —”

“Alright!” 

Sherlock shouted and the calm sea darkened. 

Figment John’s hands shook, just like John’s did in real life when he was stressed, and Sherlock took them in his own, ashamed he was the cause.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. 

The world did not fade back to gold like it was before. Something in him held the sunlight at bay. 

“I’ll tell him the truth,” said Sherlock. “About all of it. I’m just… I need some more time. Today, I only want to focus on tomorrow, on what I’m going to do for his birthday. I’m not going to drop those bombs on him on a day that most people consider to be relatively important.”

“Only important enough you freaked out and wandered into a part of yourself you’ve had shut down for the last nine years, but whatever,” sassed the figment. “I know you’re putting it off. He will too, but if that’s your decision, I’ll wait till you’re ready.”

“I may never be ready.”

The air grew colder. 

“You’ll have to be,” said the figment, “I’m a lot cleverer than you think I am.”

Sherlock thought.

“I know what to do. Do you think he’ll like it?”

Figment John leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“He’ll love it, but you better get a move on. There isn’t much time. You’ve been in here longer than it seems.”

The figment kissed him. 

“Wake up, Sherlock. I’m waiting on the other side.”

_______________________________________________________________________

John knew Sherlock could stay in his mind palace for a long time, but never like this. He was sprawled across the bed with his eyes partially open, only blinking when necessary. He was also holding Scruff, an item he swore he detested. John shook him, pleaded with him until he ripped the room apart looking for drug paraphernalia. He checked all the usual places Mrs. Hudson told him Sherlock would hide narcotics but found nothing. He checked his arms and legs and found no marks there either.

Had he taken a pill? Was he dying? 

John checked his pulse and his breathing. His heartbeat seemed steady and his chest rose and fell evenly, but he was on the verge of a full-blown panic anyway. 

“Sherlock? Baby, wake up. Please, I know you don’t like to be bothered in your mind palace, but I’m begging you, just this once, please wake up. Wake up!”

When he didn’t, John grabbed his backpack and flipped it upside down, pawing on the floor for his mobile. He’d call Mycroft. He’d know what to do.

Just as he was about to press call, Sherlock shot up out of the bed and scared the shit out of him. 

“John!” he said, and he scooped the boy up and kissed him soundly. He picked him up off the floor with both arms and held him tight. “It’s really you isn’t it?”

John would have hugged him back, except he was still so shaken. 

Sherlock studied him.

“You’re upset? No, I worried you didn’t I? It’s okay, I worried me too. But it’s alright now. The important thing is, I know exactly what to do!”

John’s worry lessened, but only because Sherlock was acting bizarre in a manner which he didn’t yet know how to process. His pupils were fine, his vitals normal, the room was clean of drugs as far as he knew… 

“Are you… talking about the Bell case?” asked John.

“No, no, no! I’m talking about something much more important than that, sort of, a lot actually. The most important day of the whole fucking year as far as I’m concerned, and I—”

“Is this about a case? Like a new case being like Christmas?”

“To hell with cases!” 

Sherlock dipped him and snogged him the rough way John liked. No _figment,_ kind of real or no, could possibly compare to the sounds John made as he melted in his arms. 

“Pack your bags,” Sherlock broke away huskily. “We’re going on an overnight trip to London. If anyone asks, you’re taking me for a routine hospital visit. I’ll forge a doctor’s note.”

Sherlock looked at John’s backpack spilled on the floor. 

“Good, it’s already empty. Great thinking, John. You truly are the cleverest version of yourself.”

He ran out of the room.

“Hey!” John chased after him. “Are you running off to London? You’re forgetting me!”

“I wouldn’t dare!” Sherlock spun one last time before he darted down the stairwell. “Don’t ask questions, just trust me. I’m going to pick up our tuxes a little earlier than expected. It’s okay, I can estimate your approximate size by gaze alone. Tell the lads we’re going out of town.” He kissed him and practically jumped down the stairwell.

“William Sherlock!”

“I’m fine! Love you, bye!” 

And the last thing John heard was the ground level floor slamming. 

He staggered back to his room in a daze, not sure what had transpired. 

“Hey,” said Eddy, rounding the corner to his room with half a bowtie hanging from his neck. “You alright there, Watson?”

John pointed toward the stairwell and opened his mouth — several times, in fact — but nothing came out.

“Is this whole 'spacing out' thing you and Sherlock do a day-tripper thing, or …?”

“Sherlock,” said John, “is currently running to the village in his socks, shirtless except for an undone bathrobe, and talking about taking me to London?”

John said it like a question.

“Eddy, have you spoken to Sherlock at all today?”

Eddy blinked, tugged at his shirt collar, and said, “Nope. Haven’t the foggiest. Beats me. Why do you ask?”

Mrs. Chen raised no fool. If John was too slow to piece together Sherlock was covering his ass over the birthday conundrum, he wasn't going to enlighten him. 

Maybe if John had been in his right mind, he would have seen through the obvious lie. Instead, he sighed and asked to borrow Eddy’s bike. 

Sherlock ran off without his wallet, and he’d be a human popsicle halfway to the village for sure. 

John walked back to their room smiling.

He guessed he’d always look after Sherlock Holmes, and the thought alone warmed his heart. 


	26. One Hundred and Eighty Degrees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to do something thoughtful for John, but it leads to confrontation when pieces of Sherlock's past tangle into his present; In an effort to save Sherlock, Mycroft hits him where it hurts, but his little brother has more guts than expected and makes a huge confession.
> 
> *trigger warning*  
> Drug abuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to sneak some foreshadowing in here. My fellow nerds will sniff it out like a bloodhound.

Sherlock and John barely caught the noon bus to Swindon, but before the bus even stopped Sherlock bolted for the front and ran all the way to the train station with John in tow rolling the luggage. Sherlock wouldn’t say what was so important, but John was so keyed up trying to follow the schedule and checking baggage that asking never occurred to him anyway. 

He was a veteran, long practiced in the art of following Sherlock Holmes into hell without the foggiest reason why. 

John tried to pay for both of them, but Sherlock swatted his hand. 

“No, not so much as _one quid_ this entire journey.”

“At least let me pay for my own! It’s thirty-six pounds, Sherlock.”

He made a move for his wallet, but it was gone.

Sherlock waved it under his nose. 

“If you insist on being annoying, I will pickpocket you blind. Do I make myself clear?”

Jesus.

“Fine,” John grumbled, slouching into his turtleneck. “I’ll take you to dinner later and make up the difference.”

“You most certainly won’t.”

The two bickered about money all the way to their seats. Sherlock didn’t understand the fuss, as he’d allowed John to force them to travel coach of all things, but first class was twice the cost, and while he didn’t care, it was important to let John “maintain his dignity” in such situations. 

Sherlock spent most of his time on the phone tapping out what he called _imperative emails of the most pressing nature_. Whoever he was communicating with got back to him swiftly, as the phone pinged so many times the other passengers gave them dirty looks. John reached over and silenced Sherlock’s phone, but the detective hardly noticed. It did no good to talk to him either, so John settled back in his seat and slept all the way to Paddington Station. 

When he woke, he found Sherlock chatting with an elderly gentleman about his dog, a droopy faced Basset Hound with trailing ears. John smiled. He’d learned long ago during the Baskerville incident that his boyfriend regarded dogs as the true masterpieces of evolution. He knew a shocking number of facts about dogs and had even tried to hide a small Rat Terrier in the dorm after it was the only one not adopted from the abusive pseudo-shelter. John blogged about Sherlock and the dog’s antics for a week before someone snitched, but by then the animal had amassed a TikTok following and Sherlock was quickly able to screen potential families, rooting out those only after the dog for its fame. 

“By Jove, do you really think so?” asked the elderly gentlemen, looking down in awe at his furry companion.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “Their sense of smell is second only to BloodHounds, and I’m sure if properly trained, Sergeant Snickers could very well sniff out bombs. Why, a dog of his caliber and intelligence would no doubt surpass the skills of the most experienced man on the Scotland Yard bomb disposal squad.”

To the layman’s ears, it sounded like Sherlock was laying it on thick, but John knew he wasn’t saying anything he didn’t believe. 

The doors to the platform opened and Sherlock knelt down. 

“Pleasure meeting you,” he said, holding his hand for the waiting paw of Sergeant Snickers. He nodded to the old man and ushered John out the door. 

“We’ve got to get a move on. I’ve got a car waiting out front and we’re two minutes and thirty-nine seconds behind schedule.”

“Oh, dear. Whatever shall we do?”

“Don’t sass,” said Sherlock. “I’ve got this down to a science.”

“I don’t doubt it. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

Sherlock held the car door open for John.

“What about the luggage?”

“What about it? I’m capable of loading the luggage in the boot.”

“But you never _do_. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

 _“No.”_ Sherlock tripped him into the backseat and slammed the door, rounding the back with the suitcases before getting in himself. John pouted and sat on the far side of the cab, but Sherlock suspected he’d forgive him soon enough. After all, this mission had an 87.4% chance of success. 

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock told the cabbie.

John made a face. “Did you… is that a coincidence?” 

“Don’t be absurd. You’ve known me for seventy-four days and fourteen hours and you have the gall to ask me if a detail concerning my life is a coincidence?”

_Only seventy-four days?_

It felt longer than that. There’d been twenty cases at least. 

“When I started Conan,” Sherlock continued, “I manipulated the online system to get room 221 in Baker Hall. Call it sentiment. I spend most of my summers in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. It’s in Central London, near enough to my homeless network for me to stay busy with cases, and not to mention it sits right next to _the_ best sandwich shop within a ten-kilometer radius, in my professional opinion.”

“Your professional… You never eat! How are you so good at being a food critic?”

“Food is science, John. For example, did you know you can always tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of the door handle?”

“So you’ve said.”

Whatever Sherlock had been texting about, it was finished because he talked ceaselessly all the way to the flat. 

It was a quaint little building. The black, rounded door bore the address and was centered with a brass door knocker. Antiquated gas lights accentuated the frame. The bottom half of the two-story building was white, but the upstairs was a dark brick. Two windows overlooked the balcony which was enclosed with an ornate ironwork railing, and a winter garden of long vines cascaded over the edge to the red awning of a sandwich shop called Speedy’s. 

Sherlock unloaded the boot and paid the cabbie.

“Shall we?” He motioned for John to lead. “I put the key in your pocket when you weren’t looking.”

John reached in his jacket pockets.

“I don’t feel anything,” he said. 

“Not those.”

He put his hands in his front trouser pockets.

“Nope.”

Finally, he squinted his eyes at Sherlock. 

“The key is in the seat of my trousers because you wanted to touch my butt, isn’t it?”

“Guilty,” he singsonged, and judging by the amount of mischief in his eyes, John surmised loading and unloading the luggage was part of a long con so that he’d have to open the door. 

The flat was dark and dusty. A skull sat on the fireplace mantle, and papers were strewn about the den floor all the way to the kitchen, which emanated a foul smell. 

“You must forgive the housekeeping,” said Sherlock. “I used to visit every weekend when I was away at school, but seeing as I don’t anymore and since Mrs. Hudson’s on strike, it has fallen into disrepair.” 

John waved his hand under his nose. 

“My God,” he said, leaning over to peek into the kitchen. “It looks like a meth lab in there!”

“It isn’t,” said Sherlock. “Merely an experiment concerning mold and decay over time.”

“Do I even want to know about the fridge?”

“Considering your strong feelings about the _fresh_ parts that were in the fridge in our room, I’m going to say no.”

John nodded.

“Got any air freshener?”

“Bathroom.”

The boys settled in for the evening. John cracked a window and stoked the fireplace while Sherlock went about cleaning the kitchen/laboratory. They had a few hours to kill ( _Three hours and six minutes, John. Pay attention._ ), and spent most of them lounging on a long couch staring up at the fleur-de-lys wallpaper. 

“Why don’t you come here as much anymore?” asked John, nestled against Sherlock’s chest.

He stroked his arm. “I don’t know. It’s a long train ride. I didn’t think you’d want to come with me.”

John looked up. “You mean you stay because of me?”

Sherlock adjusted so that he could study John’s face, as if afraid he’d find a painful truth hidden in the boy’s hazel eyes. “Do you want me to leave on the weekends?”

“No.”

“Then obviously I stay because of you.”

“We could,” said John. “Come up every other weekend, if you like.”

Sherlock snuggled back into the sofa, tucking the top of John’s head under his chin. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve been happier at school this year than I ever have been anywhere in my life. I have you to thank for that.”

John posted up on his arms and hovered above Sherlock’s lips. He kissed him, pressing the full weight of his body into his lover’s and cupping the space under his ear. 

John broke away. “Please tell me,” he panted, “that this whole holiday isn’t because you forgot my birthday.”

Sherlock nearly went offline. 

His goose was cooked.

“Forgot! I have a brain more advanced than the hard drives at the Pentagon and you think I forgot your birthday? Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve known about your birthday for months, John. Before I even met you, in fact. You think I wouldn’t know something as basic and inconsequential as—”

John held up his phone. 

“Lestrade told me thirty minutes ago.”

“Fucking snitch.”

 _“Don’t,”_ said John. 

Sherlock waited, wondering idly how he ever factored an 87.4% success rate when _people_ were involved. Mycroft had raved for nearly the whole of their time together last month that the French couldn’t be trusted, and damn him, he should have listened!

“He also told me,” said John, “that he, the lads, and the girls are about thirty minutes away. Don’t you think maybe the two of us ought to shower and get dressed?”

John didn’t look angry. In fact, he looked _fond,_ almost sporting the same adoring expression as the John living in his heart cottage. 

He’d have to come up with a better name for it than that.

“You’re… You’re not mad?” Sherlock asked. “But I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” said John. “I mean, it does, but in a good way. In my family, birthdays just aren’t a big deal. We can have a birthday or we can have a Christmas, but we can’t have both. We aren’t _that_ poor, but Mum says it would be selfish. I usually celebrate with my friends, but it’s just drinking.” He shrugged. “Harry and I always choose Christmas. The fact that you went to all this trouble and used governmental resources to smuggle our friends into London is way more than anyone’s ever done for me.”

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and settled beside him on the sofa. 

“You’re losing your touch, Holmes. You can’t surprise me anymore.”

Sherlock’s face twisted into a look of irate madness. 

He’d just see about that.

“I… am sorry,” he answered. “I feel like I failed you, but not even Lestrade knows where we're going.”

“Must be fancy,” shrugged John. “Greg sent me a picture of all the girls in evening dresses.”

“They had them. Shame to buy an outfit you only wear once, don’t you think?”

He paused. 

“... C12H22O11—”

John almost wiggled free of his grasp. “Sweet baby Jesus, Sherlock, if you don’t like pet names, then don’t use—”

“Alright, _fine,”_ he sighed. “ _Sugar.”_

Sherlock shuddered but soldiered on.

“I feel terrible. I do. You wouldn’t believe how bad I freaked out.”

He really wouldn’t.

“But I promise you that I will never forget again. I should have asked you when you asked me.”

“Babe,” John eased back into his embrace. “You were thinking about a case.”

A case? Did he really think a case was more important than him? 

“Nothing is more important to me than you!” 

John tensed.

Sherlock hadn’t meant to snap, but he hated that he’d set the bar so low, that he’d caused John to expect so little from him. His eccentricities could never excuse neglect. 

He sighed and loosened his hold on his boyfriend. He hadn’t realized he’d tightened so.

“I — Why am I so bad at this? — will hold myself to a higher standard from here on out. Knowing me, a case might take my attention for a time, but with solid communication and multiple reminders set on my phone as well as in my mind palace, I think we can say that the chances of my ever forgetting important details rest around an average of—”

“Sherlock,” John silenced him with the press of his finger. “Not one more statistic, percentage, or breakdown of variables for the rest of the evening. Not _one_ more. I feel like I’m in math class or working the space shuttle.”

“Sorry.”

The crackling sound of the dying fire filled the room.

John stood. “Would you like to take a shower with me? It’s about to get pretty cold in here.”

Sherlock sat up wide-eyed. They hadn’t showered together since what Sherlock had labeled as the _Florence Nightingale effect._

And what an effect it was.

“... If I said one-hundred percent, on a scale of one to ten, how pissed off would you be?”

John stalked to the bathroom and slammed the door. Sherlock heard the water start and the curtain hooks clanking back. 

“Sugar?”

“AN ELEVEN!” John called from the other side of the door. 

Sherlock thought perhaps he’d stepped his foot in it, but then the lock turned and the door cracked open. 

“Come on,” sighed John. “There are _some_ birthday traditions I’d like to honor.”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “Birthday traditions? In the shower? My family always celebrates birthdays, and I don’t know anything about—”

“Babe,” John interrupted. “In. The. Shower.”

“Oh… _Oh!”_ Sherlock scrambled to his feet, jerking his shoes off as he hopped to the bathroom door. “You could have just _said!”_

The sandwich shop below the flat didn’t often lodge noise complaints against the upstairs neighbors. At the least, in the summers, violin music permeated the walls well into the night. At the worst, something exploded and the fire department had to come out. However, Speedy’s did call the police that evening. 

Something about a madman moaning a nonsensical array of letters and numbers.

_______________________________________________________________________

John hadn’t known what to expect, but he certainly hadn’t expected _this._

The car pulled up to the performing arts center in Covent Garden, more widely known as _The Royal Fucking Opera House._ The venue was massive. John had never been there before, and judging by the massive white pillars and the jangling of the other occupants' jewelry, it wasn’t hard to guess why. He suddenly felt self-conscious about his insistence on wearing Harry’s duct-taped converse instead of proper dress shoes. 

He’d never spent a birthday away from Harry before, and Sherlock had assured him that the shoes were a fitting tribute. 

They walked into the massive foyer and collected their tickets. Sherlock led them up the stairs to the balcony seats, and John stumbled several times on the way up. He couldn’t stop looking at the walls, the chairs, at the glimmering, sparkling crystal ceiling dripping with gold and red trimmings. 

He gulped. When Sherlock did birthdays, he did them fancy. 

“John!” Molly called from her seat. She was wearing a light blue ball gown with gossamer ruffles. She leaned over Stephen and kissed John’s cheek. “Happy birthday!”

The other girls, Betty and Hilary, greeted him similarly, but Eliza greeted him just as the boys did, with a stiff nod and a firm handshake. The menfolk, aside from Dorian who was shockingly present, were decidedly out of their element at the ballet. 

“Sherlock,” Greg hissed as he took him aside. 

Ryan and Tyler hustled in. 

“What are you doing? I mean, this is wonderful, very nice. Sophisticated, even, but—”

“He means,” interrupted Tyler, “what in the name of the Science of Deduction are you doing treating John to the bloody ballet? Watson’s not _posh._ He didn’t even know what an oyster fork was till you showed him last week!”

“Look at him,” said Ryan, jerking his head towards John, the boy nervously tugging at his clothes and popping the soles of his shoes which had worn even worse since the beginning of the school year. “You know how John feels about being around people with _money.”_

 _“We_ have money,” said Sherlock.

“That’s not the point! The point is he never usually notices. He’ll fall to pieces. He’ll have an existential crisis by the second act. I heard him mumbling something about bankruptcy and escrow when he sat down.” 

Sherlock couldn’t deny that John looked uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t relent.

“Trust me,” he said. “I need exactly thirty-nine seconds to turn this around.”

“The curtain doesn’t even go up for another ten minutes.”

Sherlock scowled and leaned over the railing.

“Where is she? She should be here by now.”

“Who?”

But he didn’t get time to explain, because at that moment, a man in dark glasses stepped from behind the curtain of their balcony leading the single most elegant lady in the entire auditorium. 

John rose out of his seat, his expression one of shock. Molly and Stephen had to prop him to keep him from falling over. 

“Oh my God.” He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Harry?”

Sherlock and the boys turned, and sure enough, standing in an emerald pantsuit was John’s sister, Harriet Jane Watson.

She was absolutely radiant, glistening in the fabric that billowed down her back in a sheer cape. Her neckline plunged, revealing the tattoos she’d never told Mum about, and chandelier earrings heavy with diamonds hung from her earlobes. John had never seen her like this, so grown-up looking even though she was older. The green trousers contrasted with her short red hair, and the makeup she wore looked professionally done, but not like something Harry wouldn’t choose herself.

Ryan let out a low whistle before Tyler backhanded him in the gut.

“Hello, John.” 

John ran to her and she leaned over and hugged him. He was so happy he didn’t even mind that the heels made her embarrassingly taller. “God, Pup, you look so beautiful!”

She hooked him by the neck and noogied into his hair.

“Hey!” he protested.

She let up enough to hug him again. 

“Money can’t buy talent, but it can buy pretty damn fine clothes, it turns out. Your boyfriend’s agents swept me away. Do you know what I’ve been doing? I bought out some of the poshest stores in London, that’s what I’ve been doing! It was amazing! You should have seen the looks on those clerks' faces!”

“You bought them out?” John swayed on the spot. He was tallying the costs and praying Harry’s earrings weren’t real diamonds. 

But they were. Dear mother, he knew they were. 

“Relax.” She let up on her hug enough to smile at him. “I’m only joking. I bought this outfit only, but I felt like _Pretty Woman_ the entire time.”

She squealed. 

Harry didn’t _squeal._

“But Mum—”

“—thinks I’m in London interviewing for a scholarship at the Royal Conservatory of Music.”

“She does?” asked John. “How’d you pull that?”

Harry shrugged. It made the cape sparkle all the more. 

“I told her I’d forgotten, then that I didn’t want to get her hopes up about me going to uni. Then she told _me_ not to get _my_ hopes up because a scholarship would never cover university anyway, but she sent me off for the experience.”

Harry laughed. “This evening has felt like a fairy tale, but I have to say, I never dreamed you’d be into something so posh. You’re not going soft, are you John?”

John wanted to scoff, to blame the whole thing on Sherlock and his rich tastes, but he didn’t want to sound ungrateful. The Royal Opera House _was_ something to behold, and the program, _Swan Lake_ since it was so close to the holidays, was supposedly a classic. 

He turned to ask Sherlock about it, to introduce him to his sister properly, but when he did, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. 

“Sherlock? Babe?” He twisted and looked at the other lads. Nobody seemed to have seen where he went.

“Don’t worry,” said Harry, tugging John into the seat beside her. 

There weren’t enough seats. Where would Sherlock sit? John could stand, he supposed. 

“Stop it,” Harry whacked him with the back of a fan she materialized out of thin air. “Read me the program as it goes, will you? I don’t know this story. Never even watched the cartoon.”

John got the distinct impression she knew something he didn’t and calmed.

Sort of.

He didn’t know how to feel about Sherlock Holmes in cahoots with Harry Watson. He only hoped they didn’t burn down the building and tried to focus on the swelling music. Tchaikovsky, he realized from all his time spent training with Dorian. 

He mouthed it at his maestro, who nodded approvingly. 

The lights dimmed and the curtain went up. 

“In the beginning,” John read, summarizing the important bits, “Prince Siegfried is in the garden with his tutor celebrating his birthday when his mum tells him he will have to select a wife by the end of the ball that night, but he’s unhappy because he wants to marry for love.”

“John,” said Harry. 

“His tutor suggests that they go hunting, and they take up their crossbows and go into the woods where he stumbles across a lake full of enchanted swan-maidens. There he meets the love of his life, the cursed Odette.”

“John, look up.”

“It lasts over two hours, Harry, geez. I thought you wanted me to—”

 _“John!”_ Harry took him by the cheeks and forced his face towards the stage, and he was glad she did.

A murmur washed through the crowd. 

“That is not Vadim Volkov.”

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”

“Must be an understudy.”

But they didn’t murmur long, because the moment Sherlock started dancing — _The_ William Sherlock Scott Holmes, dressed in a skin-tight leotard and an embellished, puff-sleeve top really started dancing among the throng of peasants and court jesters and princesses — no one in the audience could take their eyes off him. 

The music slowed to something dark and dramatic as he neared the moonlit lake, and every pirouette, every graceful leap, and motion of his body had John entranced. Even Ryan and Eddy stopped snickering after they realized just what they were watching.

It was a story, an art, something every bit as athletic and strenuous as rugby. 

John didn’t even have to read the program. Sherlock told him all he needed to know. 

The ease with which he lifted the prima ballerina sang testaments to his strength. The way he handled her body was fleeting, but so sensuous John almost felt jealous.

Almost. 

More than anything, he felt tremendous pride.

He turned to the boys.

“ _That’s my boyfriend. Can you believe that?”_

“John, mate, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Eddy. “But I would tap that.”

Eliza turned as solemn as the grave. “So would I.”

 _“Quiet!”_ Mike shushed them. 

Betty and Hilary looked as surprised as anyone. 

“Michael, are you… enjoying this?” Betty asked.

He nodded without looking at her. 

“Betts, this is the part where the dark sorcerer shows up!”

He clearly wanted to enjoy the ballet in peace, and who were they to deny him?

They all went back to the production. 

Sherlock released a spinning maiden, seemingly deciding at that moment to break his crossbow over his knees. He reached for the ballerina and she and the other dancers fell to the floor in a half-split, their back legs far out and their arms fluttering before their tutu-hidden faces. 

“What’s happening?” asked Harry.

“They’re… turning back into swans,” guessed John. He read the act description. “The spell can only be broken if one who has never loved before swears to love Odette forever. Rothbart can’t be killed or the spell will be permanent. He’s vowing to win her trust. This,” he realized, “this is a love story.”

He didn’t know why it surprised him. 

Sherlock Holmes, that bleeding romantic.

Whisking him and their friends to London, spiriting away his beloved sister, then dancing for him on the most coveted stage in the all the world?

John didn’t know how the night could get any better. When intermission rolled around, he practically fought his way to the bathroom and back, fearful he would miss a moment, fearful Sherlock would appear on the balcony and that he wouldn’t be there. 

Mike seemed to share a similar sentiment. 

Everyone acted like they were enjoying themselves. Eliza held on to Eddy’s arm and he puffed his chest, proud, though her facial features never gave a twitch beyond unimpressed. Betty and Mike wouldn’t stop chatting about their newfound mutual interest, and Dorian and Greg chatted calmly in French with their arms crossed. They looked friendly, and that was all.

“You know we respect it, but we’re never gonna let him live this down,” said Ryan.

“Do you think it’s illegal to video in here?” asked Tyler. 

“Come off it. What’s the point of an army of solicitors if you don’t know anything about the law?”

“I know the _law_. It’s just that we always seem to break the ones no one else does. Copyright law here, I’ll bet, but how was I supposed to know anything about the legal limit on firework storage in a public building or the statutes therefore concerning private property? I didn’t know we were still on the grounds!”

“It’s not like you had your bloody neck out!” snapped Stephen, but not before a wounded Molly said, “But when I asked, you said you didn’t _mind.”_ She looked so upset he spent the next five minutes trying to dig himself out of a hole. Ryan and Tyler didn’t help such matters.

The boys bickered, causing Hilary to shift uncomfortably in her seat. She clung to Brett, but not in the same relaxed manner in which Eliza clung to Eddy.

“It’s alright,” soothed Brett, patting her hand. “She’s got it in her head that we’re all members of some kind of mafia,” he explained. “I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but her dad was a big fan of _The Godfather,_ and Sherlock said something to a chap about meat hook torture? Anyway, she was five. The film gave her nightmares. I don’t know how I ever got her to go out with me. I’m as shocked as the next man.”

Brett smiled at Hilary, enamored. She didn’t return the smile as enthusiastically, but to her credit, she tried. She kept looking over at Eliza who was stealing glances of Eddy’s profile.

Hilary would warm up, John hoped. 

The theatre darkened again, and John leaned over the balcony as the curtain rose. Harry had to snatch him back before a security guard chastised him. 

The next scene took place in the opulent hall of the palace. Dozens of dancers flooded the stage, but none so splendid as Sherlock, bounding about as the handsome Prince Siegfried.

“No!” hissed Mike, violating his own vow of silence.

“What?” whispered John.

“That isn’t Odette,” said Betty. “It’s Rothbart’s daughter transformed to look like Odette. If Siegfried chooses her, he’ll be breaking his vow.”

Mike chewed his nails to a splinter. 

Sherlock took the dark ballerina’s hand, spinning her out before all the court to see. Rothbart revealed a vision of the white-clad Odette standing in the window, and Sherlock’s face betrayed devastation. He rushed out of view as Rothbart and his daughter Odile romped about the stage in a victorious prance. 

Heartbreaking violin music filled the shadowy lake in the next act.

“Calm down,” said Harry, squeezing John’s hand. “He’s not really sad. Quit making like you’re going to bolt off to comfort him. You’re being ridiculous. He’s grief-stricken over a woman.”

“I don’t want him _grief-stricken_ at all!”

Mike whacked them on the head with a program. For him, it was a light tap, but to the Watson siblings, it felt like a small anvil. They didn’t peep for the rest of the performance.

The swan-maidens in their white tutus slowly folded from the floor, rising around the still body of Odette. She didn’t stir until her desperate lover came and gently lifted her from the lake. Sherlock dipped, holding his head to her hands and bowing in a low, willowy motion. He moved his arms, lithe and supple, as she fled from him, his wordless apology falling on deaf ears until at last she stopped backing away on her tiptoes and allowed him to lift her in the air. She caressed his upturned face, but before the couple could enjoy their time together, Rothbart appeared with lightning and the blast of trumpets. 

In the face of insurmountable odds, the lovers made the ultimate sacrifice and chose to die together, freeing the rest of the maidens and breaking Rothbart’s power. Sherlock and the prima ballerina jumped in the air with a flash of light, and fell to the floor, arranged carefully in a mass of tangled limbs. The orchestra ended the affair with a flourish like the tragedy was _supposed_ to happen.

“That’s… that’s how it ends?” asked Greg. “Why didn’t she run away?

“Because,” said Dorian, turning his face to Greg in the dim light, “she wanted to see him. One last time.”

The audience shot to their feet applauding. John did too, but the ballet left a bitter taste in his mouth. No wonder Sherlock worried a simple thing like his birthday could ruin it all. If that’s what he expected of romance, then John would show him a better one.

Sherlock scrambled off the stage, breaking from the line of bowing dancers with all form of his prior grace completely stripped away. The audience cheered and reached for him as he raced up the stairs to the balcony.

He stopped before John, breathless. 

“Did you like it?” he asked. “This isn’t the end of the night, obviously. I have something planned more up your alley, but I wanted you to see me dance.” He gasped, drawing in air he didn’t have. “Was that wrong? Was it selfish? It occurred to me around the second act that it might be selfish, but please just wait till I get changed out of this—”

Selfish? That infernal man. John remembered one of the first things Sherlock ever said to him. 

_“Contrary to popular belief, I do not think everything is about me.”_

Stupid. Didn’t he know he was John’s favorite subject, no ifs ands or buts about it? 

John popped up on the very tips of his toes just like the ballerinas had done and silenced him with a kiss. The audience applauded even louder, though there were a few shocked gasps from the more conservative members of the crowd.

And it probably didn’t have anything to do with two boys kissing, and more to do with the _way_ they were kissing, especially when one considers the pitfalls of a leotard.

Harry jerked John down by his coattails. 

“John, this is a place or _refinement._ Of _dignity._ You’re representing the proud name of Watson. Could you two behave for once?”

He wouldn’t stop smiling at Sherlock, his pride. Screw the Watson name.

“We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he is _definitely_ not wearing pants under that. I wouldn't hold out too much hope.”

Harry rolled her eyes and smacked him in the stomach.

“I’m only teasing. I’m not Mum. Fucking go for it.”

John Watson didn’t need to be told twice. 

He ran with Sherlock backstage and stayed with him until the boy was convinced that his performance was anything but selfish. 

_______________________________________________________________________

The second half of the night was a full one-eighty from the Royal Opera House. Sherlock instructed the cabbies to drive them outside of Central London. John wasn’t sure what direction they went, but they stopped before a smokey club with a neon sign that pointed underground. The whole venue was swarming with fans wearing band tee shirts, but they were moving too much for John to read what they said. 

John leaned over and closed the door before Sherlock could step out of the cab.

“How’d you do it?”

“What?”

John gave him the sass lip. He made the best faces, Sherlock thought, even when they were supposed to be scolding. 

Cheeky.

“No one just shows up and does a full ballet like that. It’s impossible. Those dancers—”

“Danseurs,” Sherlock corrected.

“—train for their whole lives. There’s no way.”

Sherlock pulled his lips to one corner, cocking his head. 

“John,” he said, “I’ve been doing ballet for years. I already knew the part.”

“But after all this time?”

“Please,” he rolled his eyes. “My memory is flawless. I’d never forget anything.”

“My birthday.”

“I’d never forget anything _that was already in there_. I never input that information!”

Sherlock threw up his hands and huffed, blowing a stray curl out of his face.

“Please tell me you didn’t blackmail the lead,” John asked. 

“Of course not! Vadim owed me a favor.”

A flush highlighted his cheeks and he looked away, eyeing John in the reflection of the dark window. He looked almost guilty.

“Vadim?” asked John. “That famous Russian bloke?”

He crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed.

Sherlock muttered under his breath in what sounded suspiciously like foreign curses. 

_“No,”_ said John. “You and …? But I thought you said—!”

“For God’s sake, I said I was a virgin, not as unsullied as fresh-fallen snow.”

Unbelievable. 

“I certainly hope you didn’t have to muss yourself up any further to take his place!” said John. 

He knew he didn’t have room to talk, but still.

“It wasn’t like that between Vadim and —!”

Sherlock suddenly calmed. He blinked like he was processing shock, and then a smug grin unrolled across his face.

“John _Hamish,”_ he said, “are you jealous?”

John’s nostrils flared in agitation. 

“You are!” he snorted, grabbing at his battered ribs. “It kills you that you don’t know what we did!”

“What _did_ you do, Sherlock?”

He pulled himself together. It wouldn’t do to cause John to stroke out on his birthday. 

And it was better this way, better he thought of Vadim as a romantic rival instead of someone more harmful.

“It was nothing. We didn’t even kiss. Just tension and... business transactions. He was too old for me. You’re the only one ‘mussing’ anything.”

When John didn’t speak, Sherlock nipped the bottom lip he had sticking out and said, “A rival tried to bring him out on doping charges, but I …” He faltered. “I solved it, okay? His career would never have taken off, so when I messaged him about you he said he would be happy to help. Vadim knows the only reason I returned was for you.”

He rubbed his cheek against John’s hair. 

“Don’t be angry. Please?”

And John wasn’t. He couldn’t be, not when Sherlock asked, but he did dodge his kiss and bite him on the ear. 

“Let me pay for the cab and I’ll think about it.”

“Then die angry. I said not one quid, and I meant it.”

The cabbie cleared his throat. Sherlock threw him more cash than he should've and they exited the car. A large, burly agent escorted them to the front of the line. The boys held on to each other, afraid they would be separated. Sherlock seemed exhausted, but he’d just danced for two hours. He had every right to be sluggish. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

Sherlock flinched when John tugged his arm a little too hard. “I’m not in the shape I used to be in. Vadim’s doing _me_ a favor taking that blasted part back.”

He clutched at his ribs, and it was then that John remembered Sherlock had done an entire ballet injured. 

“Oh my God, babe, I am such an idiot.” He pushed people away from Sherlock until they knew to give him space. One man made like he wanted to fight, but the sight of the looming agent leading them put him off. “I can’t believe I let you —”

“What were you going to do about it, John?” he asked. “Drag me off stage in front of your god and everybody? I wouldn’t have let you.” 

He squeezed John’s hand as he led him to the front of the club. 

“Tonight was for you. Entirely.”

Sherlock had to shout what he said next because the people in the club screamed like they’d seen the bloody Queen. 

“John, I should have told you this in the car, but it’s important that you hear it now. I know that sometimes people have to lie to each other. I wish you and I didn’t, but I understand. Believe me.”

“What are you talking about?” John shouted back.

“I wanted you to have something personal from me,” he yelled. “That was the ballet, but now I want you to have something personal from your father and your sister.”

Harry popped from behind the bar holding the Martin, the _actual Martin._ It wasn’t a replacement. It wasn’t the same model, but _the_ same guitar his dad bought for him all those years ago. 

John didn’t know who to go for: Sherlock or the Martin.

He loved them both terribly. Sherlock more, but the Martin he thought he’d never see again.

“How did you—?”

“Better take it,” yelled Sherlock. “I couldn’t get Motorhead. Most of them are dead, but there was one other British band you like with the old sods still kicking.” 

Sherlock held out a Sharpie.

“Your sister tells me you like Iron Maiden. You don’t have them on your guitar yet.”

John moved faster than he ever had in his life and stood on top of the bar, and there, standing on a dive bar stage behind a chain-link fence where a metal god certainly shouldn’t have been, was Dave frickin’ Murray.

John's mouth drew into a small o. 

“Did I forget to mention that Iron Maiden had dinner with me?” shouted Harry. “Because you and dad met Motorhead without me, so now this makes us even!”

“Holy shit!”

“Do you want to know how I did it? I —” Sherlock started, but he didn’t get the chance to finish.

John jumped from the bar and cut him with a kiss. It knocked them to the floor and they were almost trampled to death.

“I don’t care,” John broke off, covering his entire face and repeating the phrase until the words slurred together. “I don’t want to know how you did it, I just care that you _did.”_

“John,” Sherlock croaked. “My ribs.”

John clambered to his feet steamrolling anyone who got in the way. It was easy to forget Sherlock was injured. 

“I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay,” said Sherlock, holding his arm behind him. “I’m going to step out. You know, not really my scene. Catch up with Harry. She'll introduce you to the band. They're on a first-name basis, I understand.”

John looked disappointed, and even more than that, worried. “Are you sure? I mean it, this alone is amazing. We can go home now.”

“Stay with Harry,” Sherlock repeated and kissed him on the cheek. “I won’t be long.”

Sherlock maneuvered through the crowd of people. The hazy club really was too claustrophobic for his tastes. When he stepped into the night air he let it fill his lungs. Finally, some peace, even if it was in a back alley by a dumpster. 

“I told you to put a stop to this.”

“I tried to! I told him he forgot, what more do you want from me?”

Sherlock recognized those voices. He crouched down, peeking around the rubbish.

“I want you,” said Mycroft, “to keep him safe! I don’t even use agents in his vicinity and now he's commanding the British Secret Service for what? So he can get him and his friends off Scott-free from school? There’s a record now, Gregory, a record on all of you! Every friend Sherlock has is on file. I couldn’t erase the paper trail fast enough.”

“I tried to make John mad at him, but he’s so whipped he didn’t care.”

“Then tell John if you bloody well have to! If this is the best you can do then I might as well have my brother’s slow-witted paramour working for me!”

Sherlock pulled back behind the sacks. He thought Greg had said he’d quit working for Mycroft? The betrayal stung worse than expected. 

Greg was his friend. He _trusted_ Greg.

What were they talking about? 

“Those things are Sherlock’s place to talk about, not mine. I know it’s for his own good, but it’ll create more problems than it will solve.”

Sherlock looked down at his arm. It made sense then. It fit Greg’s profile too.

He stepped from behind the dumpster.

“Spying for my brother again, Lestrade?” He watched as they both whipped in his direction. “What did he do? Up the paycheck?”

Greg floundered, looking from Sherlock to Mycroft like he was waiting for the elder Holmes to give him permission to speak.

“He’s not paying me, Sherlock. It isn’t like that.”

“Oh, like spying on me for free makes it any better?” he spat. 

He stormed up to Mycroft and shoved Greg out of the way.

“I stole your clearance! I had a copy made of it. Here.” He threw the card in Mycroft’s face. “You know I’ve used it before, so why is now any different? I kept our agreement. I didn’t shoot up!”

But Mycroft wasn’t so easily fooled. He looked at Sherlock’s pupils, at the way he walked better than an injured man should. He hadn’t come for a drug bust, but he wasn’t surprised, not after he found out where Sherlock went.

Maybe he didn’t hold any grudges against his first drug dealer, but Mycroft did.

“Not with cocaine, no, but it’s still a lie, Sherlock. Technicalities won’t keep your heart beating. So what did Volkov give you? Something for pain, no doubt. Oxycodone? Or was it heroin like the first time?”

Mycroft’s lips dripped with rage. He’d always blamed Vadim. Before he'd only occupied a minor position in the British government. This time he'd fix him for good.

“A doctor would have prescribed me the same thing,” said Sherlock.

“A doctor told you to rest! Why didn’t you? Why can’t you ever listen to anyone?”

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s arm and ripped back his sleeve, revealing the fresh mark.

“Did you make a list?”

“Oxycodone would be the only thing on it, I swear.”

“Did you at least use a sterile needle?”

“I’m not an idiot!”

Mycroft slapped him.

His chest heaved. He’d never laid a finger on Sherlock before. But things were different. _This time was supposed to be different._ How was he supposed to contend with Eurus and Sherlock's addiction at the same time? 

“All this risk,” he panted, “so that you could show off?”

Sherlock spoke quietly. “It’s not like that.”

“THEN WHAT?” Mycroft screamed in his face. “What is it like, Sherlock? You can’t keep doing this. How the hell am I supposed to protect you?”

Sherlock exploded.

“I DON'T NEED YOU PROTECTING ME!”

Mycroft stilled his breath. He looked at Greg and motioned for him to go inside. 

Mycroft couldn’t tell him about Eurus. That was a recipe for disaster, but he didn’t have to tell him. Sherlock had a pressure point now, one that could easily be manipulated. 

He hoped.

“You’re an addict, brother mine. All you know how to do is lie. What’s he going to think when he finds out what you’ve done? Do you think he’ll remember this night fondly?”

His face grew ashen. “Don’t.” 

Mycroft glared down in his brother’s eyes. It was the first time he’d done so without Sherlock’s defiance. 

“You might be my greatest weakness, but you’re your own greatest enemy. Greater than Eurus, greater than Redbeard, greater than me. You’ll destroy everything good you have in your life for a high, so here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to go back to school, you won’t leave campus for anything except the Christmas leave to Musgrave Hall, and you won’t take so much as a Tylenol without my permission.”

Sherlock wanted to argue, but he could hear the unspoken threat.

“Or you’ll tell John,” he said.

Mycroft straightened, staring down the tip of his nose. 

“And… if I tell him myself?” Sherlock asked. 

Mycroft walked around him, circling Sherlock and the bags of rubbish as if they were one and the same. Sherlock felt his heartbeat getting out of control. He hadn’t meant to use tonight, but after the second act, it’d been unbearable. John said he wanted to see him dance, and oxycodone was nothing. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. He'd meant to quit and give the part back to Vadim, but he'd looked up and seen John looking so _proud._

He studied the graffiti on the peeling walls, waiting.

“Tell him,” dared Mycroft. “The only person more surprised than you would be me.”

His fist shook by his side. “Love can’t save an addict, Sherlock. I’ve tried. Once John realizes that, do you think he’ll stick around? You'll pick drugs over him just the same as you did me.”

Mycroft had to say things that hurt. It was better than Eurus killing Sherlock, or worse, killing everyone Sherlock loved. He’d never come back from that. 

Mycroft walked away. 

“You’re not worried about telling him, Sherlock. You’re worried about getting caught.”

He stepped into his car.

“Both are inevitable,” he said, “but you get to decide which comes first. Choose.” 

Mycroft slammed the door. His voice muffled on the other side as he ordered his driver to take them back to the office. Mycroft always worked late when he was upset. The Work was different for him than it was for Sherlock, but it had the same effect as a painkiller. 

He felt his body shaking in the cold.

Was this how John felt anticipating disaster?

The back door flung open, knocking over a stray can. 

"Babe," John smiled as he came out the door. "Harry said she saw you come this way. Are you alright? You've gotta come back inside. Harry and I just played _Invaders_ with --"

His smile fell.

"What happened to your face?" He rushed to Sherlock, examining his cheek with the hands of a physician. "If the other guy doesn't look worse, he will in a second."

"John."

Sherlock grabbed his hand. He was trembling. 

What could he say? 

_I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this._

His breathing shallowed. Suddenly he pulled John to him and held him as tight as he could.

What if it was the last time? He hadn't even kissed him the way that he wanted to yet, not the way he'd planned.

_Love can't save an addict, Sherlock. You'll pick drugs over him._

No.

"I love you."

He didn't let up his hold even when John tried to move. 

He wouldn't let him go. He wasn't ready. 

"Sherlock, you're scaring me. What's wrong? Please, whatever it is, we can fix it."

Sherlock looked into his eyes. John didn't think they were beautiful, but they were. Brown and blue and grey like they changed colors with his mood or the weather. He searched them desperately, but all he found was a reflection of his own fear.

"I'm so sorry," he spoke over the panicked breaths threatening to tear out his lungs. 

It didn't matter that Mycroft was holding him over his head. It didn't matter that today was his birthday. It didn't even matter that John would be ashamed of him.

He remembered every beautiful moment between them. John's praise when they first met in the conservatory, then again when they crashed. Their first fight, their second, John's apology and every lazy morning after. Even the way John's face reddened when while he yelled at him.

What mattered was how he was lying.

He stepped back, and he let John see his arm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this was a good idea or not, but honestly? I'm in very little control right now. Literally, none of this was supposed to happen like it did. I'm happy with sneaking Swan Lake in even if it is a cliche ballet (it's a classic for a reason and I want to use it for foreshadowing), but I didn't want the "Big Reveal" to happen this soon. However, I made the choice to go for it. I feel like Sherlock's problems are worth exploring and healing will take a lot of time. I also didn't want it to be a copy of the Love, John chapter. Anyway, I'm excited to build off this one come what may.


	27. From Russia with Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of how Sherlock started using. 
> 
> I hope I did this justice, and I'm really sorry if I didn't.

September 2014

Royal Ballet School

White Lodge, Richmond Park

London, England 

Thirteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes had attended White Hall for a year now, applying everything he’d learned at all of his previous academies. Mummy had been so proud when his audition was accepted. Her son, she boasted, studying ballet at the finest school in the world. 

What she didn’t say was how proud she was that he’d finally let up on being a detective, that he’d finally waned in his obsession with murder. His genius was second only to her eldest son’s, but his escapades had been becoming more dangerous. 

Like something Eurus would do.

Ever since the “accident with Redbeard” her youngest son had never been the same, and dance alone pacified him. In her opinion, getting him out of Northumberland and sending him to London was the best decision she’d ever made.

But it only made him feel more alone.

Sherlock sat out the set and watched as the other students stretched at the barres. He couldn’t stand it. Two weeks earlier he’d been in a third arabesque position with his arms open and his leg high behind him when his teacher had walked by and adjusted him. The woman pressed his ribcage forward, something all of his other instructors had forbidden him to do, but this was White Lodge. People were supposed to know more here. 

He tried the position in movement. He felt something give way in his back and he fell to the ground terrified. 

Lumbar injuries could break a danseur. 

They said he had to sit it out, that he had to heal, but what was he supposed to do without dancing? What else could quiet the raging inside his head? He glanced around the hall, overloading with information.

_ Don’t,  _ he thought.  _ Don’t do it. Don’t let them see that you’re different. _

He bit his tongue. He’d promised Mummy that he wouldn’t be thrown out of this school. 

All he wanted was to make her proud. 

The same teacher who’d injured him stood in front of the room working through a range of motions. She over-exaggerated her movements. She’d end someone’s fucking career and he’d be lucky if it wasn’t his. Sherlock deduced her. 

Insecure, making up for it in sexual promiscuity, disliked by her fellow ballerinas, mainly because they suspected she was sleeping with the Dame’s daughter. 

They were correct.

He jerked himself back. 

_ Deductions are for detectives. You’re a danseur now. You don’t do that anymore. _

But he couldn’t help thinking that if he had, he wouldn’t be in this situation. 

He watched the students closely, especially Vadim, the expressive, pale-haired boy who’d transferred from Vaganova in Saint Petersburg. Everything looked easy for him. He balanced on the tips of his pointe shoes and popped down to his sole repetitively in spectacular  _ fouetté en tournants _ , whipping turns, to the sound of Tchaikovsky— thirty-two of them in a row. They were strenuous. Many of the other students gave out, but Vadim didn’t. It was like he didn’t feel the pain.

The instructor applauded him, holding him as an example to the other pupils. 

She never did that with Sherlock, but he supposed that he didn’t preen enough for her tastes. 

After the set, Vadim came and sat down by him.

Sherlock stiffened. No one noticed him outside of the studio. He’d gone out of his way to ensure that. He’d stuck out at the other schools. It was important that he didn’t at White Lodge.

“Hello,” Vadim said, his accent still fresh from Saint Petersburg. He threw his arm behind Sherlock’s chair.

He thought about responding in Russian, but that wouldn’t do. He wasn’t supposed to show off. He held back in every arena these days, even violin. 

_ People hate different. You’re different. Be normal.  _

“Hello,” he replied. 

“Dzyevooshka Kent,” he said, referring to Miss Kent’s unmarried status in Russian, “Is responsible, and it is her fault. You are best danseur here.”

Sherlock nodded. 

Wait, was he supposed to do that? Be humble, Mycroft had said. 

It was just a fancy term for lying about your abilities. 

“Are you sure you’re not the best?” asked Sherlock.

There. That wasn’t lying. It was just a question. 

“I am good,” Vadim said. “You are great. You have pain. I can help.”

Was he… was he making a pass at him? Sherlock couldn’t tell without grabbing his wrists, and the boy's pupils were nothing more than pinpricks, the opposite indicator of attraction. He couldn’t deny he found the older boy striking, but...

Wait. 

Sherlock didn’t think Vadim was gay. He’d seen Vadim with women. Loads of them. He wasn’t hitting on him, then. No, he was offering something. The way he walked like he was used to being in pain. Recovered from an injury? No, recovering, but showing signs of numbness. 

Sherlock looked at the Russian’s green eyes again. His pupils in this light would never be so constricted unless he was taking some kind of downer. He flipped through a list of possibilities in his head. 

_ What constricts pupils? Heroin, Morphine, Fentanyl, Hydros? _

“Which is it?” Sherlock asked. “Oxycodone or Methadone?”

Vadim jerked his arm away and looked to make sure no one was listening. 

“I do not understand,” he said, laughing.

“Funny thing about chemical substances,” Sherlock answered. “They don’t change much across languages. But I’ll humor you,  _ Oksikodon ili metadon?” _

Vadim’s face greyed. 

_ Go ahead and think I’m a freak,  _ Sherlock thought.  _ At least I’m not an addict. _

“I’m going to go with methadone,” said Sherlock. “Seeing as it is the go-to treatment for withdrawal symptoms in patients recovering from heroin addiction. I wonder, is that why you transferred? Were you about to get caught in Saint Petersburg?”

God, it felt amazing.  _ He’d missed it, _ he realized. Ripping people apart who deserved it.

Being normal was so painfully dull.

Sherlock stood. “Next you’ll be asking for my piss come drug testing. Have a nice day, Vadim,” he strolled towards the door. “Do try to think about where you’ll go after you get caught in London. Audition processes can be so grueling.”

He grumbled all the way to his room. 

Unbelievable. The one person on campus he fancied and he turned out to be an addict. He didn’t talk to Vadim for weeks after that, and he didn’t dwell on their conversation until after he started dancing again. 

The pain should have ebbed. He should have been  _ better,  _ but it felt like three knives in his spine. He arranged his face and soldiered through the practice. If the Dame saw, she’d insist on a physical, and he couldn’t have that.

__ He visited a doctor who told him that the injury was more serious than they’d realized. He might need five months. He might need a whole year. 

Sherlock didn’t have that kind of time. 

_ You’re not an ordinary person. Maybe it won’t affect you the same way. Vadim takes them, and he looks normal. People probably wouldn't even notice with you. _

He shook his head and vowed to hire a physical therapist, someone not on the school’s radar. He didn’t think of drugs again until after Christmas. It had been New Year's Eve. His mother sent him to recover an album she’d stored away in the basement. He went to get it, but when he did, he saw something sticking out of the vinyl. It was a photograph. He could see his own seven-year-old face and a tuft of red hair sticking up beside him.

“Redbeard?”

His mother was so careful about not keeping photographs around of the dog. He didn’t know why. He  _ missed _ Redbeard. He  _ wanted _ to see him, to remember him in more than blurs across his memory. Sherlock felt his heart quicken, but when he took the picture from between the record sheets, it wasn’t a dog.

It was a boy.

A boy with red hair holding a wooden sword. 

“Victor.”

Sherlock dropped the record and it shattered at his feet.

Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Mummy, Father, Uncle Rudy, everyone upstairs. 

Everyone was lying to him. 

“Hello, brother darling.”

Sherlock whipped around and tumbled over a crate. The pain in his back was excruciating. 

A young girl leaned over Sherlock. She couldn’t have been more than six. 

“Do you remember your little friend now?” 

He screamed, but when the maid flicked on the lights, the girl was gone.

“Oh, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, barely looking up from his phone. “Aren’t you too old to be afraid of the dark?”

He hated him. He  _ hated  _ Mycroft. 

He stole Victor’s memory. He’d erased Eurus’s crimes.

Eurus was twelve now, twice as old as when she’d murdered his friend.

His own mind, even hallucinating, was the only source of truth. He’d been happy. He’d wanted to be a pirate. He’d had a  _ friend.  _

He hadn’t been alone.

The long weeks of school coupled with the pain and the nightmares finally broke him. He couldn’t dance, so he couldn’t think. He began looking for cases again, looking for something to distract him from the boredom. 

The boredom, God, no wonder he was always bored and picking people apart. His mind knew the truth. Even when he’d been healthy, dancing was too easy. Violin was too easy. Pretending to be normal and dumb and oblivious was mind-numbing. People were liars. They needed to be deduced. Crimes needed to be solved. How did people live like this?

One day he cornered Vadim by the River Thames. 

“You’re using again,” he told Vadim.

The boy scowled and called him a freak, a weirdo, an asshole.

The weeks had done wonders for his vocabulary.

“How much do you want for it?”

Vadim turned. “What did you say?”

“Does it help?” Sherlock asked. “Does it quiet thoughts?”

Vadim blinked. “I will not charge you. If you keep my secret, I keep yours. You, as it is said, scratch my back—”

“And I disinfect myself. Whatever. Have you got any?”

That was the beginning of it. Vadim didn’t charge him.

At first.

He waited, gained his trust, going so far as to spend the night in Sherlock’s private room, holding him. It never turned into anything, but having someone near felt good. Having something calming that helped him sleep felt even better. 

But then Sherlock wanted to quit, had said that he wanted to work more cases in London so he could help other people find closure. The thrill of the chase felt better when he was sober, so much better he almost didn’t need to use. For that, he needed to wake the hell up. 

“Try this one,” said Vadim, handing him a powder. 

Sherlock didn’t even ask what it was. He was finally feeling alive again. His back was feeling better. After this, when his grieving period ended and he forgot Victor Trevor’s waterlogged face, he’d quit. 

They snorted at first, but then that wasn’t fast enough. Sherlock didn’t have time to sleep, so he especially didn’t have time to wait for a drug to take effect. He finally started using a syringe. 

He balanced his life as best he could. The secret life working cases for himself and the public life as the well-behaved danseur for his parents. The two were at odds, but he handled it until he and Vadim’s biggest rival lodged a formal complaint. 

Doping was grounds for permanent expulsion. Neither of them would ever dance again if it was proven.

“You can fix it,” said Vadim. “You are a genius.”

Vadim knew him better than most of the students. He was becoming more reckless, acting more like himself than he had since his acceptance to White Lodge. Why keep a promise to Mummy? She lied. She feared him. 

She didn’t love Sherlock. She loved what she wanted him to be. Even Eurus, safe in her fifth institution/prison, was granted more than that. 

“What do you mean fix it?” asked Sherlock.

“You can make his proof look fake. You can even turn it around on him.”

Sherlock pulled away from Vadim. “You want me to lie? You want me to destroy someone’s life? I won’t do that, Vadim.”

The boy scowled. “I am a year away from a prosperous career. I will not take chances.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” asked Sherlock. He’d figured out long ago that Vadim was using him, but he was using him too, to fill the loneliness, to chase the high. “You said yourself that I’m a genius. Don’t threaten me. I can make you regret it.”

News of the investigation reached Mycroft, but by then Sherlock had arranged fake blood and urine samples, using only physicians and nurses who could be bought. It saved Vadim, but Mycroft was not so easily fooled.

He wasn’t “the government” yet, but really did occupy only a minor position. 

“I’ll see to it he’s shipped back to Russia in pieces,” vowed Mycroft. “I should have known better than to take my eyes off of you for a second.”

“Oh, so you’re just going to make more of my friends disappear, is that it, Mycroft? ‘Eurus killed his dog and routinely escapes prison. Better make sure Sherlock suffers.’ Come off it, Myc! You don’t give a damn about me!”

He wasn’t going to tell Mycroft that he knew the truth. He wanted to see how long he’d keep up the lie. 

For the rest of his life, Sherlock bet, if he could get away with it. 

“Volkov isn’t your friend! Look at you! It’s a waste, Sherlock. I’m trying to protect you. You’re cracked out so hard they don’t need a medical test. An ordinary person could see it!”

“The world’s great if you’re extraordinary like you, isn’t it? But what about me? I don’t want to be normal and I don’t want to care what people think! Screw this! Screw ballet, screw London, screw everything!”

“You’re not talking sense.”

“Yes, I am!”

Mycroft couldn’t hide the situation from Mummy or Father. Now not only did they have to bear the shame of an institutionalized psychopath daughter, but also a son in rehab. They enrolled him in Conan, but he was in and out, jumping from facility to facility, or as Breckenridge called them, “study abroad programs.” He got a little better, but only just, and Mycroft worked tirelessly at his job. A better position meant more power. Power meant more agents. More agents meant more people to monitor Sherlock. 

He was never safe, only this time the danger was from himself. 

It didn’t last. The lonlier Sherlock felt, the angrier he became. He broke into drug closets in the facilities and took what he could, weaning off just to prove that he was able to quit whenever he wanted. Only cases seemed to calm him, so Mycroft became his legal guardian. He handed him cold cases when he gained control of Scotland Yard and allowed Sherlock to live in London on the weekends, but on the understanding that he never went near Vadim Volkov again.

Sherlock stabilized after a time, but things were different between him and Mycroft then. 

“Sherlock?” he asked, peeking into Mrs. Hudson’s flat one summer. “Would you like some company?”

Sherlock screeched on his violin. “Why not? It’s not like I have anyone but you.”

“How very inviting.”

“I  _ didn’t  _ invite you.”

Mycroft sat down. “I’ve been promoted again.”

Sherlock grunted.

“I was wondering, now that I have influence, if perhaps you’d like to leave Wiltshire and re-enroll at White Lodge. You already spend all of your weekends in London anyway.”

“You mean now that you can make Volkov disappear would I like to do ballet again? No thanks, your highness, but I’m happy where I am.”

Mycroft inhaled. “You aren’t happy, Sherlock, and I don’t know why. I’ve given you everything I can think of.”

“Can you give me Redbeard back?”

He paused. 

“The dog? This whole sulk is about a dog?”

“IT WASN’T A DOG!” Sherlock slammed his Stradivarius, his father’s treasure, across the arm of Mycroft’s chair. Wood splintered everywhere. 

He recovered himself. “To me. Redbeard wasn’t just a dog to me.”

Mycroft worried the conditioning was breaking. Had it been a mistake erasing Victor Trevor?

No. If Sherlock was this broken up over an Irish Setter, he could only imagine what’d happen to him if he remembered the boy.

“You’re paying father for that,” he said. “We’ve only two, you know. One now, I suppose.”

Sherlock shook, looking down at the neck and strings of his violin hanging idly in his hand. 

His lips quivered. “Just leave me,” he said. 

“I won’t ever leave you, Sherlock. I was there for you before. I’ll be there for you again.”

They sat together until Mycroft was called away. As he exited the building, he swore he’d get revenge. He couldn’t bring himself to kill Eurus, but one day he would ruin Vadim Volkov. He owed Sherlock that much. 

He gripped the umbrella handle. 

One way or the other, he’d give his brother peace. 

He would set things right.


	28. The Ballad of Johnny and June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John is June and Sherlock is Johnny.

“I love you.”

John tried to push away, to look at Sherlock’s face, but it was like Sherlock was too afraid to let up. It must’ve been crushing his ribs. His cheek was red as if someone had slapped him. Harry had gone enough rounds with Mum for John to recognize it anywhere. At first, he thought it was either an accident or for a case, but he was shaken. He spoke like people do when they’re afraid breathing will make them cry. 

“Sherlock, you’re scaring me.” 

What had happened? Was it because John had hurt him? God, he’d never forgive himself. 

“What’s wrong? Please, whatever it is, we can fix it.”

John would rush him to the best hospital in the country. He’d start taking medical school more seriously so he could care for him around the clock. Anything if it’d take away whatever hurt him.

John stopped trying to move and rubbed circles into Sherlock’s back, but then Sherlock pulled away, looking into his eyes like it was the last time he’d ever see him. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

The words were full of air. His eyes veined red against his completely blue irises. 

He stepped back then and held out his arm, wrist up. 

_ No, not that one.  _

He ripped back the sleeve and John saw it, a pink bump, a clean injection site.

“Oh, baby.” He laid his hand over the mark and pressed his other palm against Sherlock’s cheek. It was damp and burning. 

“I was heroin, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He breathed through his mouth.

“What did you say?”

John swallowed, his own emotion threatening to overtake him.

_ You were raised your whole life to be tough. Use it. _

He tightened his jaw. 

“You’re tired. Your pupils aren’t dilated. It couldn’t have been cocaine, so was I right? Is it heroin?”

His brows touched and then his face shattered. His lips, his shoulders, his knees, everything was shaking. John had never seen him cry like this before. He couldn’t even understand what he was saying.

John gathered him in his arms and shushed him soothingly, rocking him as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Shush, there we go. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re hyperventilating, baby, I don’t know what you’re asking me. Take all the time you need, then you can try again.”

John kept repeating himself, doing everything that Harry had done for him when they were kids. Eventually, he tried to talk Sherlock through the 4/6/8 breathing exercises, but he fell into a second round of sobs, and this time he wouldn't be calmed.

He crumbled to his knees and John went down with him. 

“You know? How long? How come you didn’t  _ leave me?” _

John explained himself before Sherlock’s imagination could get away from him.

What had happened to this incredible person to make him think the worst of everyone? What makes someone like Sherlock start drugs anyway? Someone so gifted, smart, and talented?

“Don’t you remember what I told you? You just can’t surprise me anymore, Holmes.” He ran his hands up and down his back. “I haven’t known long. In the hospital, Mycroft had me listed as family. I found out you’d been admitted the week before and asked questions I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry I kept it from you, but I wanted you to tell me when you were ready. I wanted to wait until you trusted me.”

“I  _ do _ trust you.”

He buried his face in John’s neck, and John cradled his under cold hands. 

He clenched his eyes shut and nuzzled into his hair. “Then why do you think I’d  _ leave? _ I love you, and I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. You… you overdosed last time because of me.”

_ Stay tough. You’re no good to him weak. _

Sherlock finally stilled, gasping.

“No. No, John, it isn’t like that, please!” 

He pulled away and gripped John’s shoulders so tightly he could feel his fingernails sinking into his skin. 

“It wasn’t you. You can’t blame yourself when I…  _ When I do this.” _

His choked confession echoed through the alley, covered only by the sound of machinery and sirens. 

“I  _ will  _ do this again, John. I  _ always do.  _ I say I won’t, but it’s like I don’t even know I’m doing it, or it's like I’m someone else, or it doesn’t seem important, or…”

He fell completely apart. 

“It is  _ never _ your fault. I’m so sorry. I’m  _ sorry,”  _ his voice broke. 

He wouldn’t let John hold him again, but wrapped his arms around himself, crying with his face down where he couldn’t be seen. 

“I know it’s your birthday. I ruined that for you, but Mycroft said all I know how to do is lie. I don’t want to lie to you like I’ve been lied to, don’t you see?”

He shook his head.

“Of course you don’t. I don’t even see.”

“Sherlock,” John curled his hand back, deciding to give him space. “I know this might sound weird to you, but you don’t know everything.”

He scoffed. “Don’t waste your time on me if you think this is going away. It started when I was thirteen and it hasn’t changed a fucking day.”

His expression became bitter. “You think you can fix everyone, don’t you? You think you can fix me.”

“No,” said John. “I don’t. But I also don’t think this is it for you.  _ You  _ can fix you. Why do you think I started going to therapy again? Don’t act like you don’t know about it. I know you think everything on my desk is fair game. You’re not the only person in this relationship who can play things like a violin. I’m trying to fix me, Sherlock, and not just for you but for myself, and to do that I know I need help. I realized it isn’t the same thing; for you, it will be harder. You’ll relapse, maybe for the rest of your life, maybe you’ll beat it quick. I don’t know. But I do know it’s worth trying. You’re Sherlock Holmes. You’re the stubbornest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. You can overcome this. I know it.” 

He finally took his hand. 

“And you won’t have to do it alone.”

Sherlock looked up at him, his mouth ajar and his eyes shimmering. 

“You say that now. Everyone’s supportive in the beginning.” His shoulders fell and he sighed. “People can only take disappointment so many times.”

He completely turned his back. “This isn’t healthy for you. I’m never physically abusive. Most of the time I’m not even mean. I hide it well, but I do take it out on Mycroft. You don’t deserve that, John. I don’t want to be that way with you.”

John propped up on his knees and draped himself around Sherlock’s back. 

“Then don’t stay this way.”

He tensed. 

They might have been there for five seconds or five minutes, but to John, it felt like an eternity. Finally, Sherlock put his hand over John’s on his stomach. 

“It wasn’t heroin. After the second act, I took some oxycodone. My body hurt too much to go on without it. I didn’t plan on it.”

John pressed his cheek between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Then why’d you do it? We should never have come to London.”

“I just… I wanted to do something meaningful for you. Like you did for me.”

John released him and switched to the front. “I told you there isn't a score between us. You already had the guitar. You had Harry. Why wasn’t that enough?”

John took his hands when he wouldn’t look at him. “I loved every second of it, but why did I have to see you dance?”

John gently tipped up his chin. He wanted to see his eyes. 

“Why?”

Sherlock’s hands steadied, but he squeezed back. 

“I didn’t always go to school at Conan. I was always supposed to be on that stage, but I started using at White Lodge, the ballet school here in London. I got injured. I wanted something for the pain and… There’s just so much I don’t know how I could ever explain it to you.”

John pressed their noses together. “Try me.”

He told him everything, about Victor, Eurus, Vadim, leaving nothing out. They must’ve sat there for ages. John never uttered a word, but listened and comforted him when it became too much. 

“I forgot how I loved dancing until I met you, then I wanted to come back and rewrite what had happened. I hadn’t used in so long, but it's like that sometimes. I can stay clean for a year, then I’m back on. I didn’t even think about oxycodone. It seems like nothing to me.”

He shrugged. “Honestly, it doesn’t. I used it and methadone all the time before I tried heroin, and then I switched to cocaine and now I use that almost exclusively. I’d been clean for months before last time. It… never crossed my mind to care about it until we started talking about Vadim. I’m not angry with him, but that started everything.”

“It didn’t cross your mind,” John droned, “that taking a drug you don’t need might be a bad idea? Or dancing at Covent Garden black at blue would hurt? Or that you could die, or even just that I wouldn’t like it?”

He collapsed against the wall.

“Jesus, being your June Carter Cash is going to be a pain in the ass.”

“My what?”

“Your June Carter Cash,” said John. “American country musician? She married this dude named Johnny Cash. He was cracked out. Meth, barbiturates, cocaine like you. Eventually, he fell in love and married June Carter. I mean, it didn’t help she had a pill problem herself, but she was nowhere near as messed up as him. She and her family would wait at his house with shotguns for his drug dealers to come around. They chased them off, dragged his ass to rehab multiple times, but they never got divorced.”

He shrugged. 

“It’s kind of a touching love story when you get into it.”

“So, you plan on, what, shooting at people for me?”

“I’ll do what it takes,” John nodded. “You’re my person and I’ve gotta look out for you. It’s going to be shit. You’ve got the instincts of a weasel and the brains of a supervillain. I expect the worst.” He stood up and held his hand down to Sherlock. “But I hope for the best.”

Sherlock took it.

“But I don’t understand. How can you forgive me so easily?”

John kissed him. He tasted salty. 

“There’ll be lots of fights later, but for now, let’s take it one day at a time. Do you need to go to hospital?”

He shook his head. 

“Good,” said John. “Then let’s take Harry back to her hotel and go to the flat. You need fluids and to sleep this off. We’ll talk more in the morning before we head back to Conan.”

He started for the door, but Sherlock stopped him.

“Wait! John,” he asked, “are you sure about this? I don’t think you know what you’re getting into with me.”

“It’s not like I ever do anyway.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” 

John turned the door handle. “Like I told Mrs. Hudson, I’m not going anywhere. You’ll get better and I will too. Now let’s get out of here, okay?”

Sherlock grinned. His entire expression lit up like he had hope for the first time. 

Then it fell. 

“Wait, did you say Mrs. Hudson?  _ Mrs. Hudson _ ratted me out?!”

John smiled.

They were going to be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my uncles recovered from addiction and one of them didn't. I don't know a lot about these kinds of drugs, so if I need to make edits, it's okay to let me know.
> 
> I promise this sad story is going to get happier. I apologize.


	29. Long Talks and Riding Crops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to stroke out your John Watson in three easy steps.
> 
> John's supposed to be the experienced one in the relationship, but when Sherlock decides he wants to take things to the next level, it overwhelms his boyfriend's brain.
> 
> *There is NO LEMON, just talk of one.*

John spent the entire week leading up to the rugby match doing two things: busting his ass on schoolwork and pulling together a support group for Sherlock. 

They talked it over, and both agreed that it was best to let the lads and Molly in on what was happening. Sherlock kept his composure while he told his story, but it was hard for him. Seventy-six days ago he hadn’t anyone he cared to talk to, and now he needed both hands to count them all. 

Molly already knew. She noticed his addiction before anyone else at Conan, but this time she didn’t slap him and dare him to explain why he was wasting the beautiful gifts that he was born with. This time she gripped his shoulder and begged him, “Not again.”

Things with Greg were so tense that he voluntarily attended a counseling session with John and Sherlock to clear the air between them. He did it because he cared. He did it because you can’t love an addict the same way you love an ordinary person. Mycroft understood. Mycroft had been in the trenches.

Greg mentioned Mycroft _a lot,_ which wasn’t the best strategy. Turned out, Sherlock still harbored what the professional called “residual feelings of resentment” towards his brother.

Sherlock talked to Greg pretty rough, rough enough for John to see what they were up against. _Addicts always go for the throat,_ Mrs. Hudson had said. 

Their counselor, a woman named Gloria, explained that while Mycroft was right, that love couldn’t save an addict, it might help.

“Addicts use addictive behaviors to stop feeling pain. Sometimes their perception of reality can be distorted.”

Sherlock had looked in the corner of the room and scowled like he was motioning to someone who wasn’t there. 

“John, what I want you to think about is your own health. With your anxiety, this could quickly spiral for you. Sometimes when we love a person suffering from addiction, we end up enabling them, usually due to the guilt we feel for having negative emotions about that person. All of this is…”

She looked at Sherlock. Gloria was smarter than the other counselors they’d gone through. She recognized that the word _normal_ was a trigger for him and avoided it whenever possible.

“... to be expected.”

It was a rough week. John went to his own sessions while Sherlock talked to Gloria, and afterward they did a relaxing activity like music or ice skating in the Jones Center. 

The afternoon before the match, however… 

“I’ve changed my mind,” Sherlock declared for the eighth time that day. 

“Oh, yeah?” said John. “I never would have guessed.”

“This is stupid. Why should I have to spend time with Mycroft?”

John ran a lint roller down Sherlock’s trousers. 

“It’s just for a few hours. If we don’t like it or it feels unhealthy, we won’t do it again. Just give it a chance. He’s your brother and he loves you.”

Sherlock grumbled. 

Therapy sucked for several reasons, but mainly because a) while Mycroft crossed major boundaries, Sherlock’s source of irritation stemmed from his perception that Mummy and Father loved Mycroft more than they did him, and b) because it gave John ridiculous ideas about family time. 

How sickening.

They sat at a table scooping chicken tikka masala with naan bread while Mycroft projected himself into their room via the television. He ate a salad, but looked up every few minutes to stare wistfully at the spread John had prepared.

All using nothing more than a skillet and Sherlock’s bunsen burner, no less. 

“I see someone’s the happy homemaker,” nodded Mycroft.

John smiled. 

Sherlock and Mycroft hadn’t let up on their stiff postures once the whole supper. They chewed without breaking eye contact in some sort of Holmesian bid for dominance. 

“Thank you, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, even though it wasn’t him who’d been complimented. “Your meal looks… healthy.”

He looked at John, who slipped him a chocolate under the table.

Ever since a particularly riveting science class, John was determined to Pavlov’s Dog the shit out of Sherlock. So far, he showed a strong preference for Galaxy Truffles, Scottish Rock, and Jazzies, but Wispa made him behave the best. 

Unfortunately, John was out.

“It is,” said Mycroft, chewing with a pained expression.

“That’s… good for you. You’re up four pounds.”

“Three and a half.”

“Four. You’ve been stress eating.”

John snatched the truffle and ate it before Sherlock could put it in his own mouth. 

He gaped, outraged. 

“You don’t deserve this chocolate and you know it.”

John smacked his lips. 

It was the first Mycroft smiled during the meal. 

“So,” said John. “I have to admit, when I invited you for dinner, this is…” 

He bobbed his head.

“... not exactly what I imagined.” 

He motioned to the television. 

“You can’t look through that unless it’s on, can you?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Watson. Even I don’t make it my business to know _that_ much about Sherlock's _extracurricular_ activities.”

John poured himself a glass of mango lassi, sucking down the cold beverage in an attempt to cool his flaming cheeks. 

He had to admit, this was awkward.

Mycroft squinted his eyes. “And what, may I ask, is _that?”_

He pointed, obviously inquiring about the black, sleeved-out tattoo pattern snaking up Sherlock’s arm.

“It’s a non-toxic marker,” said Sherlock.

“A what?”

Sherlock sighed. He’d wanted to lie and trick Mycroft into thinking he had a real tattoo, but John _had_ slaved over a hot piece of chemistry equipment, so he supposed he ought to play nice.

“John has this idea that instead of wearing long sleeves, every time I feel ashamed or when I have ‘thoughts,’ I should write or draw something positive on my arm. Unfortunately, I’m shit at it, so John does most of the doodles.” Sherlock face-shrugged and smiled at John. “He’s rather good.”

He held out his arm so Mycroft could see it. 

The doodles had started as swirls, as whirlpools of water centered over the track marks, but the feeling of John’s hands ghosting over his skin had been so calming that Sherlock had fallen asleep. By the time he woke up, there were Chinese dragons and krakens and ships tossed on tempestuous seas all the way up to his collarbone. He was in the process of coloring them in when Sherlock woke. 

Mycroft grunted, loosening his tie. The vein throbbing in his forehead ebbed.

“I’m impressed. You’re a man of hidden talents,” he said, but John knew he meant _“Thank you sweet baby Jesus my brother doesn’t have an actual gangbanger tattoo.”_

“Thanks,” said John. “I used to do the cover art for my sister’s albums. Working on the band together was something we did for fun.” He circled his straw in the glass. “So, what do you and Sherlock do? You know, for fun. You do have that, right?”

The Holmes brothers looked at John and then each other.

John took a big sip of his lassi until the glass gurgled.

He supposed that he must’ve asked a stupid question, but he hadn’t. He’d asked something far worse.

* * *

“For God’s sake, man I thought you were going to school to be a doctor!”

“Don’t yell at John!”

“If I were there I wouldn’t be losing. You! You kicked the table, didn’t you?”

“I did not!”

“Don’t listen to him, Watson. He’s a notorious cheat!”

“Me! Bunkum and balderdash, you’d cheat Mummy if she gave you the opportunity! He did once. It was Christmas, 2009. You lied about the battleship!”

One would think Holmeses were into something civil like chess, but no. When John had suggested it, they’d turned up their noses. Operation was their game of choice, and John had the misfortune of being Mycroft’s hands. 

“Steady, Doctor Watson.”

“I _am_ steady,” John gritted through his teeth. “We’re removing the adam’s apple, not defusing an IED.”

“If that's your attitude, then no wonder we’re behind.”

So far, Sherlock had the Charlie horse, the bread basket, and the spare ribs. John and Mycroft only had butterflies in the stomach and the rubber band. John had tried for the wishbone, but Mycroft was on his case so bad he couldn’t help setting off the buzzers. 

John pinched the apple, but just as he was about to lift it out of the hole, Sherlock stood up and the board moved straight into the pinchers.

“Confound it, man!” Mycroft beat into his desk.

“You!” John pushed out of his chair. “Mycroft was telling the truth. You are a cheat!”

“It was an accident! I needed to use the loo.”

John pointed his finger in his face. “Use the loo and lose your turn.”

“But John, that’s not fair!”

Family game night continued until everyone was so hot under the collar that Anthea put a stop to it. Apparently, Mycroft’s screaming was causing a scene in the room outside. Security had been called.

 _“Family,”_ she droned, “is all we have at the end of the day. You three just exhibited the most childish display of behavior that I have ever seen! Sherlock,” she directed, “you are a cheat. John,” she snapped, “you are shit at this game, and Mycroft,” Anthea glared down at him, twiddling his thumbs on his desk. “Get it together.”

Mycroft mumbled. “I’m sorry, Anthea.”

She mocked him. “ _I’m sorry, Anthea._ I don’t care!”

She snatched away a cupcake Mycroft was hiding under his desk.

“Now all of you apologize to each other!”

They muttered an apology, each looking down at their laps. 

Anthea was more of a mother than John had originally given her credit for.

“Good. Now I’ve penciled us in for twelve o’clock noon a week from Tuesday. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

The boys and Mycroft shook their heads. 

“Excellent. I’ll see to it I order some burgers for the boys and a salad for you, sir. Will that be all?”

Mycroft dismissed her and cut the feed. “Yes, Anthea. That will be all.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other. 

“Still think spending quality time with my family is good for our relationship?”

The deadpan, he couldn’t take it.

John laughed out the nose till the two of them were on the floor struggling to suppress snorts. 

“I can’t, I can’t,” John tried a dozen times. “I can’t believe what a competitive _bastard_ you turned out to be! No wonder you couldn’t resist one-upping me on my birthday.”

“Are you serious? You’re as bad as Mycroft. I can’t believe you sided against me! What kind of boyfriend are you?”

John slithered close from his place on the carpet and threw a leg over him. 

“A lucky one?”

He kissed him heatedly, recklessly, and a whole list of other adverbs that fell short of the mark. 

Sherlock couldn’t believe that John was still with him, couldn’t believe that he knew him wholly and that they had no secrets from each other anymore. 

He broke away, a stupefied smile zigzagging across his face. “You’re a sappy bitch, John Watson.”

John waggled his brows. “Yeah,” he said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and pointing to the doodles. “But I’m your sappy bitch. _Forever.”_

Sherlock raspberried his lips. “This will wash off in the shower!”

“Will you need some help?”

“You’re impossible.”

Sherlock looked at John’s flushed face, at how John smiled at him like he _really_ loved him, like it wasn’t just something they said when they left for classes or split up at counseling. 

“John,” he started, but there weren’t words for what he needed to say. All of those times before when he’d wanted to tell John how he felt, all of the misunderstandings and the fights and the tension, they suddenly made sense. He hadn’t been able to communicate with John the way he needed to before. 

But he could now.

He angled his head and brushed his lips against John’s, tender and slow. The cold wind and long showers chapped them, but Sherlock liked it. 

The texture felt divine no matter where he put them.

John parted his lips, chocolate and spice on the tip of his tongue, and Sherlock couldn’t hold back anymore.

He brushed his thumbs over John’s cheeks, deepening the kiss on an inhale. It felt like they were breathing the same air, like a life force intermingled. This feeling wasn’t a chemical imbalance. It was something miraculous and improbable that science couldn’t explain. No data could convince him otherwise. 

“John,” he broke off, his breathing heavy.

_You’re my weakness and you’re worth it._

“Yeah, babe?” John answered. He looked indescribable this way with his lips swollen and his pupils blown wide. The shirt he wore was too tight for him, his hair wild and gold against the blue carpet. Sherlock wanted him here. He wanted him on every available surface.

_Spit it out before you lose the nerve._

“I thought I wanted to wait until the ball, but I don’t. I can’t,” said Sherlock. “Please tell me that you feel the same way too.”

John sank his teeth into Sherlock’s neck and sucked at his pulse point. He pushed his hands under the violet dress shirt and raked his nails down his back. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t sound like he could breathe either. He also didn’t sound like he was really paying attention.

Sherlock’s head fell back, giving John greater access. The way he undulated against him, the way his fingers trailed across his lower abdomen, he couldn't string a sentence.

It took every ounce of his willpower, but Sherlock pushed him away. 

“I’m talking about sex.”

John stopped breathing. 

Sherlock wasn’t holding his wrist, so he couldn’t be sure, but judging by how he wasn’t blinking or moving, the easy deduction was that the boy had gone into a very rapid rigor mortis. 

If this was how he looked when he went into his mind palace, no wonder it scared people. 

“John?” he snapped his fingers in front of John’s face. “Sugar?”

That brought him round a bit. 

“I’m sorry?” John asked. 

“I said,” repeated Sherlock, “I’m talking about sex. Penetration, specifically. I think we’ve covered all the other bases. Ryan explained them to me very thoroughly. First base is—”

“I know what it is!”

John scrambled to his elbows. Sherlock had never seen him flustered about sex before. 

Sherlock scanned his body language, analyzing the change in demeanor in relation to the change in conversation. 

“You’re… alarmed? Why are you alarmed? I thought you _liked_ sex.”

“Oh my God, can you stop saying it?”

“Saying sex?”

“Yes!”

Sherlock paused.

“Is it … because it’s with me?”

“Are you mad?”

“Some people think so.”

John sat up against the bed and adjusted his shirt, pulling it over his exposed stomach. 

“Obviously I only want _it_ with you. It’s just, well, I’ve never…”

John started rubbing his hands together and folding his lips. That couldn’t be good for the chapping. 

He spoke quietly. 

“I’ve never done it with a bloke before.” He shrugged. “I’m ‘alarmed’ because I don’t know how it works. I mean, I _do,_ but…”

Sherlock nodded. “See? You’re on the right track.”

“Oh my—! How are you so calm about this? I thought it bothered _you.”_

“It used to,” Sherlock thought it over. “But it’s you, so I’m not afraid.”

He put his head in John’s lap. “I’ve never done it with anyone ever.”

John interrupted his own panic to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. It wasn’t slow as usual, but at a speed that made Sherlock worry he wouldn’t have any left when John was done.

“... are you nervous because, you know, the elephant in the room…?”

He groaned.

“I’m not nervous because it’s gay, Sherlock, I’m nervous because I’m supposed to be the one who’s good at this!”

John’s hands froze in Sherlock’s hair.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. It’s just…” 

He sighed.

“I don’t provide much, do I? You’re smart, effortlessly talented, _really_ handsome, and I’m the guy who follows you around telling you how amazing you are because everyone else is too jealous to admit it. That and you’re a git, but I say that with love.”

He dropped his head against the mattress and stared up at the ceiling.

“Emotions, people, intimacy, that should be my department.”

Sherlock took one of John's hands out of his hair, holding it to his cheek. 

It was their go-to gesture, something he recreated when he felt insecure.

“And it shouldn’t be mine?” he said quietly.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I… I want to be good for you, and I’m worried that I won’t be.”

Sherlock sat up, sporting the _You wanna go right now, boy?_ look that was so markedly John it was a testament to how much time they spent together. 

“I know that I have this epiphany a lot, but you are a _stupidity champion_.”

He sprang to his feet and darted to the armoire. 

“I’ll admit, my fixation with you has triggered a rapid decrease in my crime-solving. However, in your defense, your bisexual awakening, our multiple hospitalizations, my drug use, and not to mention our constant wooing of one another—”

“Wooing?”

“—has been a nonstop ride since our romantic entanglement began. That being said, my social circle has increased, my drug intake and symptoms of depression and antisocial behaviors have decreased, and all of the scientific factors that go along with those variables indicate an increased life span for me. I’m happier, I shower regularly, I’ve started cracking the window so I don’t inhale noxious chemicals, I’ve even gained seven pounds, God help me.”

He stopped pilfering through the armoire long enough to look at John. 

“You,” he pointed, “are the cause of all of that. Open your eyes sometime, John. The world’s not really a terrible place.”

He took a box out of the armoire and kicked the door closed. 

“Besides, you don’t need to be worried because I have taken care of the research and preparations for you.”

He dropped the lidless box before John. 

“Jesus Christ!”

“John, while I respect your religion, could you please leave it out of our bedroom?”

John blinked, staring at the contents a moment longer than necessary just to be sure he wasn’t jumping to the wrong conclusion. He reached in and took out the most innocent looking equipment he could find. 

“Where the hell did you get this stuff?” he asked, dangling handcuffs on the tip of his finger.

“Irene gave it to me.”

John winced and dropped the handcuffs back in the box.

“Don’t _worry,”_ Sherlock chastised. “I sanitized it. Your health is of the utmost importance to me.”

John needed to lay down, so he crawled on the bed.

“Baby, darling, sweetheart, love of my life, in your wildest fantasies, which one of us,” he reached in the box and pulled out a pair of rabbit ears, “is wearing _this?”_

Sherlock turned up his hands noncommittally. “I don’t really have fantasies about that sort of thing. However, I wanted to be prepared in case you did.”

John fisted his own hair. 

“You think I have fetishes?”

“Everyone does.”

John teepeed his hands in front of his face and inhaled.

“Sherlock,” he motioned, “we do not need a _single thing_ in that box.”

He dipped over and made an exception. He slammed a bottle on the desk. 

“ _That._ That is _it,_ ” he declared. 

Sherlock pouted a moment and looked at something in the box.

John followed his gaze. “Oh, you gotta be—”

He took the handcuffs and slapped them on the desk too. 

“Fine. Anything else I should know about you before I demand you take this back to Irene Adler?”

Sherlock blushed. 

John looked down. He took out a riding crop, slack-jawed. 

“Are you serious?”

“Just because I haven’t done it yet doesn’t mean I don’t think about it in my mind palace!”

“I thought you were solving the world’s problems in there!”

“Come off it, John. I do have _some_ free time!”

John gulped. “And who exactly would be using this on who?”

Sherlock lifted a brow and quirked the corner of his lips. 

“Oh, God.” John rubbed his temples.

He needed to sit down again. 

Sherlock came over and sat beside him. “Do you… not want to?”

“Of course I want to! This is insanely exciting!” he screamed. 

The neighbors probably heard him through the walls. 

“But,” he continued, “this is just… really sudden. We’ve also never talked properly. I’m glad that we are, but you have to admit, the box is a little shocking.” 

Sherlock held a finger against his own lip and squinted. 

“Irene is… outside the bounds of normalcy?”

“You went straight to the top for this one. I assure you.”

He nodded, thinking. 

“So, are we moving too fast?” 

He looked at John like a kicked puppy. 

John scooted over on his knees and put his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. He wrapped an arm and leg around him.

“No, I don’t _think_ we are. We were friends for way longer than we’ve been together. But in this one particular area, I think we might need to slow down. We’ve had a hectic week. A hectic lot of weeks, actually, and we just started counseling _..._ I just think we need to wait before we make any major decisions. Maybe… waiting till the ball isn’t a bad idea?”

He looked up at Sherlock, rigid under his embrace.

“I suppose it is possible that I might have jumped the gun a bit.”

“It’s possible,” John answered. 

Then, “How long have you had the box?”

“Do you remember when you were in jail and I said I was making the room more comfortable for you?”

“But you didn’t even want to be naked around me!”

“Fortune favors the prepared mind, John.”

John reined it in. One of them needed to have a cool head about this, and it looked like it was going to be him.

“Okay, so we both agree: waiting till the ball is the best option. If we still want to do it then, we’ll go for it.”

He grabbed the cuffs and the riding crop from the desk.

“But no to this on the first time. I’m nervous enough as it is!”

Sherlock gently pressed his hands down, lowering the offending articles. 

“Of course, but you don’t need to be nervous at all. I told you, I’ll take care of you.”

His hands hovered over John’s hipbones.

“You’re always taking care of me. Let me do this for you. When the time comes, I want panic to be the farthest thing from your mind, okay?”

The cuffs and the crop fell to the floor with a clatter.

“I can’t promise you anything, Holmes,” he said, his breath hot against Sherlock’s chin.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “But it means the world that you’re willing to let me try.”

They leaned in, all idea of their deadline teetering dangerously close to _screw it,_ when their door banged open.

“Hey!” said Stephen. “Match starts in thirty minutes. You’re gonna miss the haka.”

Sherlock slowly rounded with the look of murder. 

Stephen looked at the floor, his eyes wide at the sight of the box. 

He looked from John to Sherlock stammering.

“I’m… gonna tell them you’ll be late then? Right, yeah, well,” he cleared his throat. “I’m off.”

Stephen slammed the door.

That was the last time _he_ volunteered to fetch Watson and Holmes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock before John: Idk. Sex seems kind of horrifying. I don't like that human shit.  
> Sherlock after John: So anyway, I researched BDSM, and my findings conclude...
> 
> John before Sherlock: Sex is no big deal. This ain't my first rodeo. I'm three counties Watson.  
> John after Sherlock:  
> Sherlock: John, why do you have a nosebleed?  
> Sherlock: ...Are you crying?
> 
> *squeals* so finally coming up on the murder and the big baddies, and I have to admit, this has been more therapeutic than I thought. I can't believe it's been almost a year since I started recovery. This time last year I couldn't think in a straight line, I hated everyone who tried to help me, I hated myself. Now I'm writing again even if it's fanfiction and honestly? I love it. I love the people I met doing this. I love sitting down every day and exploring these people inside my head. This has been a positive experience for me. 
> 
> Hitting the final stretch. I wonder what I'll do when it's over.


	30. Ka Mate! Ka Mate!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is full of triggers, so don't ruin your Valentine's Day.
> 
> *Murder  
> *Mentions of racism  
> *Mycroft going all death penalty, but Greg talks him out of it
> 
> Mycroft has a chance to put Volkov down for good, but should he?  
> Hilary confides in Sherlock her real reason for being hesitant with Brett.  
> Stephen makes a shattering discovery when Pratheesh misses the first match of the season.

Mycroft stood before White Lodge listening to the Thames in the distance. A light rain pattered against his umbrella as he made his way to the school. It was just as he remembered it years ago when he’d enrolled Sherlock. He’d only been nineteen then, but already through college and rising through the ranks of government. He wondered where he’d be now if he hadn’t had Sherlock and revenge to motivate him. Probably still running the British government. That much was inevitable. But standing before this Georgian house with thunder and lightning at his back? 

No, this was the culmination of four years worth of pain. This was where Vadim Volkov got what was coming to him.

How dare the school ask a druggie like Volkov to talk to the students? He’d ended careers, ruined people like Sherlock Holmes more talented and vivacious than himself. Volkov didn’t deserve to be breathing, let alone around children. He would never get the chance to speak if Mycroft had his way.

And Mycroft Holmes _always_ had his way.

He strolled through the paned doors, shaking his closed umbrella softly and scattering droplets to the hardwood floors. He told his agents to hang back.

Agents were for villains, and while Volkov was one, Mycroft wanted him to know how beneath him he was, how like a roach for the crushing he could be at Mycroft’s mercy. 

Mycroft wouldn’t kill him himself. He’d send him back to Russia on drug charges so severe that the government there would execute him. He’d send a syringe, the same one he’d confiscated from Sherlock the first time, and he’d be only too happy to watch as Volkov slipped away under lethal injection. 

Poetic justice.

Mycroft’s phone rang. He silenced it, but it went off again and again. 

He answered it in a rage.

“England better be falling,” he barked into the line. 

“Myc?”

Greg was never usually so persistent when he called, especially not since the end of their personal relationship. What made today so special?

Mycroft looked at the date.

Shit. 

Not only had he had to project himself for dinner with Sherlock and John, now he’d forgotten the one promise he’d made to Greg. 

“Myc? Are you there?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “My apologies, Gregory. I’m afraid you caught me in the middle of an emergency.”

“An emergency?” said Greg. “England isn’t really falling, is it?”

Mycroft smiled. 

How absolutely precious. Greg assumed he held the whole world in his hands. He pretty much did, but still. 

It’s not like Greg was there to hold. 

“No, England is fine. She’s her merry self.”

He heard Greg sigh on the other end of the line. “Great. I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”

What would he say? How could he possibly explain?

“About that,” said Mycroft. “While England still stands, I do have a… previous engagement. I made it four years ago and didn’t realize my ship had come in, as it were. I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

He pivoted his head, looking at Volkov through the glass as he twirled before a class of young hopefuls. Blast, he’d been too late, but no matter. There was still time to apprehend Volkov. It would be satisfying to humiliate him in front of children at the least. 

“What I mean is, I’m still in London.”

Now Greg was the one who wasn’t talking.

“What kind of emergency is it, Myc?”

“It’s a family matter.”

Mycroft heard something clatter on Greg’s end. 

“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Don’t fuck with me!” snapped Greg. “You’re going after Volkov, aren’t you? For what he did? Four years? I’m not stupid.”

“I never said that you were.”

Mycroft made eye contact with Volkov. The man didn’t recognize him after all this time, but he would. Mycroft would see to it his face was the ghost in Volkov’s nightmares. 

“Wouldn’t you go after the man who hurt your sister?”

Greg hesitated. 

Chloe was never the same after a drunk driver plowed into the side of his mum’s convertible. He’d been ejected, but fine, not so much as a scratch on him. Chloe had sustained brain damage. Her behavior became erratic. She suffered what they thought were panic attacks, her facilities dwindling until she had to be kept in an institution. Sometimes she didn’t even know who Greg was. Eventually, even his parents stopped going to see her, but not him. 

He would never abandon Chloe. 

“He served his time,” said Greg.

“But Chloe is still serving hers, just like my brother is still serving his. I won’t let this man walk, Gregory. I’m following all the rules.”

“He’s a naturalized citizen,” said Greg. “Trust in the legal system. Try him in England, but don’t send him to Russia.”

“I want him dead.”

“You think I don’t want the man who killed Chloe dead? Because that’s what they did! They killed her! My sister never aged a day over ten, and every day she gets younger and younger. She’ll never grow up. She’ll never get married. She’ll never have children or even friends. Sherlock can still have all of that, Myc.”

“Can he?” said Mycroft. “When he starts using again and even if he doesn’t and his heart gives out from the drugs, can he? Volkov can still kill people, Gregory. Make no mistake. As long as he walks free, he’s murdering people. I’m going to put him down, and I don’t care whether you approve or not!”

Mycroft’s chest heaved. He felt like he was having a heart attack. A few of the ballerinas looked up and pointed at him through the window. 

Greg spoke. 

“Mycroft,” he said. “If Sherlock wanted revenge on Volkov, he would have taken it himself. I’m not telling you to let him walk free. I’m asking you to uphold the law, the one you’re supposed to hold yourself to.”

Mycroft heard him sigh. It sounded like he was slamming his locker. 

“Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’m supposed to lead the haka here in a minute. I just… I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to know if you’d be watching. I really miss you, Myc. When you’re here, I feel less like something was stolen from me.”

He swallowed. 

“You’re a good man, Mycroft Holmes. Don’t let what broke your heart wither you away to a husk. Don’t be like me.”

Mycroft feared Greg was crying. He wanted to speak up, to say that being like Greg would be an honor for anybody, but the phone clicked, leaving him alone in the halls of White Lodge once more. 

_______________________________________________________________________

Eddy Chen picked up a stray vaulting pole laying at the wayside of the track and catapulted himself into the bleachers. It was a messy landing. A member of the crowd lost their nachos, but no matter. Chen, cheese-streaked and bold, sprinted up the stairs to where Eliza sat with the girls, Sherlock, and John. 

He dramatically ripped the Union patch from his shirt, lunged into a pose that would have torn a less limber man’s muscles, and presented it to Eliza. “For you, _Mamacita_.”

The only thing that moved on Eliza was her left eyebrow. Her arms and legs remained crossed. “What is this?” she asked, expressionless as always. 

Hilary turned pink enough for both girls and looked behind her at John, Sherlock, and Betty, similarly unaffected though half the school was staring. 

“Dramatic entrance,” Sherlock mumbled. “Presentation’s a bit mucked up.”

John was nodding, tapping his chin. “I’d give it a solid eight. Damn gifted. Can’t possibly hold the cheese against him.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock argued. “It knocks him down to a six at least.”

Sherlock asked Betty’s opinion. 

“He’s right, John. It’s the details that make the man.”

The three debated the theatrics of Chen’s gesture, but the opinion of one woman was still out to dry, and she was a far harsher judge.

Eliza turned over the patch before tucking it in her own breast pocket.

“It’s a token,” explained Eddy. “A brave knight should always present a token to his lady fair.”

He ripped a bouquet of flowers out of the back of his shorts. Most of the petals were missing, but Eliza didn’t seem to mind. She took them, angling her head. The corner of her mouth twitched as she studied him under hooded eyes.

“Why do you always bring me the flowers?” 

“Because a dying rose ought to see how it’s done before it withers,” answered Eddy. 

Chen’s three commentators cringed.

“I know he was thinking on his feet,” whispered John, “but I think that one was pretty awful.”

“As a woman, I have to say it’s one of the worst I’ve ever heard.”

“Downgrade him to a five, then?”

“Agreed.”

Just when Eddy was about to throw in the towel, Eliza put the bouquet aside. She suddenly took Eddy by the collar and pulled him into a passionate kiss, pinning the back of his head with her arm. When she released him, she rewarded him with a light slap.

“You will win. Lose at the cost of my displeasure.” 

Chen, that crazy son of a bitch, looked _chuffed_ about it. 

“Merci!” he said, beaming as he rubbed his cheek.

Eddy skipped down the stairs whistling the tune to _French Girls_. He clicked his heels as he bounded over the railing, and nothing, not ever Coach Goalla insulting his mother, removed the idiotic smile plastered across his face. No one really understood what was going on with Chen and Eliza. Some said he enjoyed the chase. Others said his cattle ranches were drying up under the hot Australian sun and that he needed to marry a wealthy heiress, but the going rumor was that Eliza had become a dominatrix under Irene Adler’s careful tutelage. 

The slap certainly wouldn’t help the rumors.

At the very least, the tossers left Eliza alone now and quit their wolf-whistling. There were perks to dating a member of the Notorious Nine, even if it blackened her name.

Eliza secretly liked it. It felt like being a mobster’s girlfriend, though she knew the whole thing was bollocks. Eddy Chen was the kind of man who cried watching _Titanic._

“All those _violins,_ ” he’d sobbed, making a mess of the Wollstonecraft common room couch. “Why couldn’t they have put them on a _bloody lifeboat?”_

He’d been despondent, reduced to using toilet paper instead of tissues after Eliza ran out.

“Evening,” greeted Molly, balancing drink carriers and blankets in her arms. 

Sherlock rose up to help her. 

“I bought hot chocolate for everyone,” said Molly, distributing the drinks, “and I brought the blanket or you.”

She draped the fuzzy article around John’s shoulders. He thanked her and ushered her to sit between him and Sherlock. 

The haka began, and Greg led the chant, his face contorted in a look of aggression as he paced the length of his players. _“Taringa whakarongo!”_

The team fell in line, their knees low and their forearms upturned.

_“Kia rite! Kia mau!”_

The team answered back, _“Hi!”_ and lowered in a squat with their legs apart. Sherlock knew of the haka, but he’d never seen it before. John told him the All Blacks did it before every match, but he wasn’t familiar with the team. The boys bent their forearms in front of their chests, a fist over each elbow. Slowly they beat on their thighs, echoing the words in Maori as they pulled their arms in strong motions. 

Greg’s eyes bulged and his tongue stuck out. _“Ka mate! Ka mate!”_

_“KA ORA! KA ORA!”_

At first, the other team had looked on amused, but the longer and louder the chant became, the more it unsettled them until they were exchanging intimidated glances.

“What are they saying?” Molly asked Sherlock.

“Oh, so you just assume that I know Maori?” 

Even Eliza gave him a look. “Well,” she said, “do you not?”

He scowled, but it was so hard to look grumpy snuggled under a blanket with Molly and John. 

“I know I have a school-wide reputation,” said Sherlock, “but I’m not a walking Google.”

“I know it,” said John, raising his hand outside of the blanket.

“You do?” 

“Yeah, Mike taught me. _Ka mate_ means _I die,_ and _Ka ora_ means _I live, fully alive.”_

“The rest of it,” said John, “means ‘This is the fierce, powerful man who caused the sun to shine again for me. Up the ladder, up the ladder, up to the top. The sun shines! Rise!’ But if you want a word by word, Greg says it isn’t so much the _fierce, powerful man_ as it is _the hairy man._ He says it goes back to a warrior chief who possessed all of those qualities.”

“The hairy man?” asked Molly. “You mean to say we’re out there chanting about hairy men on ladders?”

John shrugged. “Seems accurate enough. I once caught Greg and Mike waxing each other’s chests.”

“It’s true,” Betty agreed. She pulled up pictures to prove it.

John leaned forward on his elbows, blowing over his cup. “I don’t think my translation does it justice. The haka is beautiful. I've heard it given other ways, like, _This is death, this is death. No, I live, fully alive, a fully grown man who can bring the sun so it will shine on us again. Rise now, rise up and take the first step. Let the sunshine in._ It’s about surviving your enemies. It’s a challenge, hopeful.”

He took a sip of his chocolate. “I’m glad our school does it.”

The team broke with the cheers of the crowd. 

“The haka always shakes them,” said Betty, “but the plays give them their confidence back.”

“Are they not good?” asked Hilary. 

“Well…” 

About five minutes in she had her answer. 

“How the hell did they pass the try line so quickly?” asked John. He was on his feet, motioning at the goal post with his fists. He hadn’t cared for rugby when he’d first come to Conan, but between the lads and practices, an obsession had crept into his veins. 

“It doesn’t help they’re down a player,” said Molly, squinting at the field. “They have a fill-in for Pratheesh. Look.” She pointed towards a man standing in the right wing position, but it wasn’t the elder Goalla. “He’s one of the best on the pitch. He and Farrnon play the back row, but Pratheesh is faster. I wonder where he is. It’s the first bloody match of the season!”

“Stephen will be tickled pink, no doubt,” said Sherlock, pulling John back under the blanket. His rage could only keep him warm for so long.

“He won’t be if they lose,” said Molly. “There’s talk of sacking his dad if the team doesn’t improve. No sibling rivalry is worth that.”

Stephen played as a tighthead prop, arguably one of the manliest positions on the pitch. Sherlock thought it was a mistake. Stephen had the spirit but lacked the physicality, and that assessment wasn’t just because of his earlier accidental cock-block, but was one Sherlock thought applied to almost everyone on the team. He didn’t know much about rugby, but from what John had explained, position was everything, and the only men on the pitch who seemed a proper fit for what they played were Eddy, who played as a centre, Lestrade, who played as a fly-half, and Mike, who played as a lock, and even he would have better served as a prop, in Sherlock’s opinion. 

The game pressed on, becoming more depressing with every play. Many students filed out of the bleachers, but most remained to let their objections be known. A few loyal fans insisted the refs were cheats withholding red cards, but most vocally blamed the coach, the players, and God himself in language that curled Breckenridge’s toenails, but what was he going to do? Punish half the school? There wouldn’t have been enough trophies to polish.

Among the most passionate of sports goers was not one, not, two, but three of Sherlock’s friends. Molly went full she-Hulk, standing with John and booing as they made obscene gestures. 

“WHERE THE FUCK IS OUR PENALTY KICK? ARE YOU BLIND?”

“They haven’t awarded us a damn scrum all night!” said John, throwing down his empty cup in protest.

Betty left her seat and was pacing the length of the bleachers screaming instructions at Mike, nevermind she had no idea how the game was played. 

Even Eliza, after seeing Eddy taken down in the second half, leaped to her feet and cried, “ _Hé, vous trous du cul!_ That was obstruction!” and dove into a stream of French profanities so graphic, Sherlock had to remind himself that John couldn’t understand and so there was no need to plug his ears. Not that it would have mattered. John had a soldier's vocabulary and a hellcat’s temper. 

He tapped Hilary on the shoulder. 

“Would you like to walk down to concession with me?”

“Yes, sir!” She couldn’t take up her purse fast enough. 

“Do you actually want anything?” asked Sherlock as the two navigated the bustling pavement. 

“Not really,” said Hilary. “Do you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “John cooked me dinner beforehand. I didn’t even really want the hot chocolate, but I didn’t want to be impolite.”

He noticed Hilary shivering. She wasn’t wearing nearly enough clothes. He deduced that she’d never been to an outdoor sporting event before and that she found the whole thing terrible.

He took off his scarf. 

“Here,” he offered. “It’s not much, but if you pull it up over your nose, it might help.”

Hilary’s face blanked. 

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the scarf. She blushed when she saw the bruises splotching across Sherlock’s neck. 

“You know,” said Hilary, “you’ve changed. You seem happier.”

“Do I?” he asked, but he smiled all the same as he popped his collar against the wind. 

Hilary tested the waters, hooking arms with him as they bumped through the throng of students. He didn’t push her away.

“Think about it and honestly say you’re not a different man today than you were at the beginning of the year. Drinking chocolate not to hurt Molly’s feelings? Offering me a scarf because you know I’m freezing? Going to a rugby match and letting me walk next to you for warmth? You’re so… considerate now, always smiling, and don’t think the orchestra hasn’t noticed your lack of antagonism. I think that alone was half the motivation for helping John.”

They walked to an empty patch of concrete at the sidelines, speaking over the uproar of booing.

“Love looks good on you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He didn’t say anything. He barely knew Hilary. He wasn’t even sure why he’d invited her down, only that he’d noticed her extreme discomfort and worried what it’d mean for Brett. 

“I… Thank you,” he finally answered. 

Thank you seemed safe. 

“Molly used to say that you looked sad sometimes when you thought he couldn’t see, but I think that’s gone now. You’re happy now and he’s not here. I’m glad. There was a time I used to worry about you, you know.”

“Me?” said Sherlock. He scoffed. “No one ever worried about me, not till John came along.”

Hilary smiled sadly, looking out across the pitch. 

“Maybe not like we should have.”

She glanced up at the bleachers.

“I’m glad you found your happiness. Eliza wouldn’t have hers either if it weren’t for you.”

She bumped him with her hip.

Sherlock looked scandalized. 

“It was you. I know it was you, sending Brett and Eddy in with all of those ridiculous ideas.”

“Excuse you?” he said. “How do you know it wasn’t John? I had nothing to do with all those viola jokes!”

“Exactly,” said Hilary. “You’re a proper genius, but you hardly give direction, do you? I’ve played violin with you. I know what you’re like. You probably barked an order or threw out a suggestion and let _Chen_ lead the way.” She rolled her eyes. “John’s nothing if not organized when it comes to romance. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a mess in other areas, but after the way he proposed to you? The viola jokes would never have made it through the vetting.”

“Prop— _Proposed?”_ Sherlock stammered. “We’re sixteen! And if anyone’s doing the proposing to, it'll be _me,_ thank you.”

Hilary arched her brows, smirking. “Thought it through, have you?”

He scowled. “How are you and Yang, by the way? Or should I let you answer? I’ve been deducing your body language around him, and I must admit, it’s rather painful.”

She treated the man like a yoyo, either snuggling up close or sitting as far from him as possible. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it.

“If you have no intention of giving my friend a chance, that’s fine. You aren’t required to like anyone, God knows I endorse that fully. However, if you’re only staying with him for Eliza’s sake, you can drop the pretense. Eddy’s, um,” he threw his arm about, trying to remember what Ryan had taught him, “whipped so brutally he wouldn’t leave her for the world. Trust me, when I say I can’t see why you don’t like Yang, coming from me, it is no small mystery.”

He turned to see if she was still smirking.

She wasn’t. 

“I’m not trying to be cruel, Hilary, but I think it’s best for all involved if you…”

Would John and Eddy kill him for saying this?

“If you break things off.”

Hilary didn’t speak. 

Sherlock sighed. “Yang’s a good man. Loyal, level-headed if he isn’t around any bad influences.” Like Chen, for example. “But if you don’t care for him that way, that’s nothing to be guilty about. Just… tell him so?”

Everything about this situation felt wrong. Who was he to be giving anyone love advice? He was the brains of his relationship. John was the heart. Should he backtrack? Start singing Yang’s praises from the rooftops? Maybe if he pointed out every good thing Yang did for the rest of the night. Maybe he should find John.

Probably not the best idea, considering his irate state.

“So… I’m not as considerate as you imagined now, I suppose.”

He hoped she’d at least give his scarf back before she stormed off.

But she didn’t storm at all.

“No, Sherlock,” she sighed. “That’s actually more considerate than I’m being.”

She looked up at him as she leaned her elbows on the fence. “Brett’s a wonderful bloke, but he’s just… He’s not the sort of person my parents would want me to bring home.”

She waved her hands frantically. “Not that he isn’t the kind of bloke I’d like to take home! I actually really like him! That night at the ballet, he was so kind and funny. Lord, I had no idea how funny he was! And he is in a really quiet way, isn’t he?” 

She smiled out at an oblivious Brett in his number nine jersey, sweating at the front of the backs while the audience shouted abuse. 

“He’s talented, sweet, handsome… The rugby team does community service, did you know? He invited me to come play with him at the children's hospital and he is _phenomenal_ with kids _._ They all loved him.”

She uttered silently, “I did too.”

Sherlock didn’t understand. 

“Why wouldn’t your parents like Brett? He’s in the orchestra with you, he’s painfully polite to his elders, he’s wealthy. Hell, his family owns over half of the largest fishing companies in Taiwan _with_ holdings in Australia. I don’t see what the problem is.”

Hilary bit her bottom lip and looked up at the dark sky, blinking her eyes like she was holding back more than frustration. 

“Repeat the first half of that last sentence,” said Hilary. “Over half the largest fishing companies _in Taiwan.”_

Sherlock didn’t move. 

“You mean, your family doesn’t like Brett because… ?”

Hilary kicked the fence. “Because they’re racist assholes, Sherlock.”

She bundled her hands under her armpits, nuzzling her red nose into the scarf. 

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He knew there were people who hated him and John for their sexuality, but the idea that there were still people prejudiced against others because of their _race?_ It shouldn’t have surprised him. He deduced it all the time in strangers, but to have someone not like Brett of all people? It couldn’t be true, but Hilary’s body language said otherwise. The way she looked at Brett, the way she seemed to go to him and pull away at the same time, it all made sense now. 

She feared her family just like John feared his Mum. 

“I…” Sherlock inhaled. What did he even say to that? “It is my experience that caring what one's parents want rarely results in one's own happiness. I mean, look at John,” he waved up at the stands.

“If John wanted to please his mum, he’d be dating Mary Morstan or some other faceless woman right about now. Hell, he might not even be here. He’d probably be off working in plumbing or taking the BARB for the military. If I cared what my parents wanted I’d be dancing to Swan Lake full-time lowkey strung out on painkillers and heroin, granted I was still alive.”

He raised his hand hesitantly, patting Hilary twice on the shoulder like he was touching a hot kettle.

“Don’t let other people's hate keep you from loving your own life,” he said. 

He looked at John and Molly screaming in the stands. 

“Or the people in it.”

Hilary took in a shaky breath. “I used to think you weren’t as smart as you thought you were. Guess it was me who was too big for her britches, yeah?”

She turned and looked at him. 

He analyzed. “American expression, southern geographically, slight tinge to your accent. Eddy has referred to your parents as ‘yanks’ on several occasions.”

He studied her expression. “I’m not trying to make insinuations. That would be just as ignorant.”

“No,” she said. “My parents raised me here. My mother is from Maryland and my father is from Virginia.”

“Both below the Mason-Dixon line,” he commented. 

Hilary nodded. “Please don’t think all of us are like that. Most of us aren’t. Very few people harbor prejudice like that anymore.” She looked at her feet. “I’m just unlucky, I suppose.”

The Badgers _finally_ scored a try when Farnonn grounded the ball. Five points went up on the board and the stadium roared. 

Sherlock shifted his feet. 

He didn’t know what to say. Just that he hoped that things got better? That the next generation didn’t have to suck as much as the last? What was he going to do? Cite all of the improvements that were coming too slow? People could change, he guessed.

“Hilary,” he asked. “Do you think that John’s mum could change?”

She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets and hunched up her shoulders. 

“I don’t know,” said Hilary. “Some people do.”

“But do you think she will?”

Her body language said no.

“She has two children in same-sex relationships,” shrugged Hilary. “Unless she wants to die alone, I guess she better buck up.”

Before they could discuss it further, a cry rose out from the stands and from the surrounding onlookers that was so deafening it could not be ignored. 

A forward slammed into Brett before he could recover the ball from the ruck. His torso snapped back and his legs flipped so that his neck crunched into the pitch. 

Sherlock could hear John and Molly screaming from above. 

“He was offside! That was fucking offside!”

“You can’t tackle a scrum half like that! Penalty! Where’s the fucking penalty? That jackass did that on purpose!”

Hilary’s hands slapped over her mouth. Before Sherlock could stop her, she’d jumped the fence and was racing out onto the pitch. He chased after her. Two is better than one when it comes to breaking rules. 

“Brett!” 

She possessed a deceptive strength for a woman of her size. She ripped the offending team’s prop out of the way so hard he skidded all the way down to the ten-meter line and he sat blinking like he had no idea what had happened to put him there. 

“Brett, honey? Speak to me! Is your neck broken?” 

She tapped him lightly on the face, pulling back his eyelids. 

He finally stirred, though the pulsing of his pupils didn’t seem good. 

“Hills?” he said. Then the bastard smiled and spat out his mouthguard. “Hilly! Songbird, what are you doing in Brisbane?”

He tried to get up, but she gently pushed him back down.

“He’s concussed,” said Sherlock. 

Greg and Eddy leaned over the lad. 

“Hey, mate, how many fingers am I holding up?” 

Eddy held up six. 

Brett blinked. “Friday?”

Eddy and Greg looked at each other. 

“Well,” smacked Greg, “at least he knows what day it is.”

Coach Goalla and the physician elbowed their way through the team. When the physician assessed that nothing was broken, they let Brett stand long enough to stagger and collapse, but not before he pawed at the air like he was trying to catch a ball that wasn’t there.

“Yang, you’re on the bench,” snapped Coach. “The rest of you,” he commanded between curses, “get back in position!”

The ref blew the whistle. 

Sherlock smiled up at the stands, laughing. 

“And what’s so damn funny?” said Hilary, carrying the feet of Brett Yang while Mike took the front end. 

“Nothing,” said Sherlock. “Just that John and Molly finally got their red card.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Ryan and Tyler rolled Brett back to Baker Hall in Coach’s office chair. The man was good and out, his head circled by visions of winged wombats. Hilary worried he wouldn’t wake if he slept off a concussion, but John promised her that was a myth and that he only needed to be woken every few hours to assure he didn’t have any deteriorating symptoms.

The Badgers suffered a humiliating defeat. A single try was all they had to show for their efforts.

“Welp,” said Tyler, “I wish I could tell you not to get used to it, Watson—”

“—but we’ve been for the last three years,” said Ryan. “It’s a hard pill to swallow, John, but the good news is it never gets any easier.”

John peeked from beneath his blanket. “That’s… good news?”

“Sure,” said Tyler. “I sure would hate to become complacent.”

“It’s a sad man who stomachs losing.”

Sherlock eventually gave up his own coat to bundle cold-natured John.

“How the blazing hells are you shivering?” he said, rubbing his boyfriend’s shoulders. “It’s only seven degrees, and that’s even with a wind chill factor.”

The only visible part of John was his eyes. “It might as well be negative twelve.”

“Are we talking Celsius or Fahrenheit? Because I think you’re being a little overdramatic.”

With nothing left to scream about, John and Molly had quickly cooled down. Molly had Stephen’s hoodie to bundle under, but Sherlock could have wrapped John in a freshly skinned polar bear and it wouldn’t have made any difference. The boy would never survive Northumberland come Christmas, and it was only a few degrees difference.

“What I’d like to fucking know,” said Greg, who never disparaged his teammates, but was in a particularly bad mood, “is where the hell was Prat-theesh. No offense, Stephen.”

“None taken,” said the younger Goalla, pulling the hood closed around Molly’s face. “Though you could do without mocking a proud Indian name, but okay. It means great expectations.”

“Well, I’m not surprised he’s named after a Dickens novel,” said Greg, “because that’s exactly what he was tonight.”

Mike held an ice pack against his face. “Did he say anything to you, Stephen? It’s not like him. What if something’s happened to him?”

“He better pray so,” said Stephen, “because when my dad gets ahold of him I’m going to be an only child.”

Betty took Mike’s ice pack and handed him a water bottle. “Did he seem sick to you?”

Stephen shrugged. “He was a little dizzy, but he’s been trying to cut weight and build muscle. Sometimes the exercise gets to him. He’s been a nightmare, honestly. Now that the ladies know what he’s about he hasn’t been getting —”

Stephen looked at Molly and scalded. He attempted to recover.

“Um, you know, enough sleep.”

Molly arched a brow. “Enough sleep, Stephen?”

If he hadn’t a beard to hide under Sherlock was certain Stephen’s entire face would have turned the color of Mycroft’s hair. 

“Well, I mean, that is to say, the athlete’s foot keeps him up at night. Bloody bastard has been stealing my eczema cream,” Stephen kicked at the pavement.

That part, at least, was true. 

“He shouldn’t be doing that,” said John. “Eczema cream uses a cortisone steroid. If anything, it’ll only worsen and spread athlete’s foot. That’s a fungal infection.”

Eddy rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Doctor Watson, for that riveting lecture. It’s almost enough to distract us from the fact Sherlock outing Pratheesh as the bastard he is dried up his sex life and threw him into a depression that cost us the match.”

Sherlock face-shrugged. “I’m not surprised, though you would think it’d be less the serial philandering and more the athlete’s foot that damaged his prowess. Jock itch often accompanies athlete’s foot. I can only imagine how _that_ looks,” he shuddered. 

Stephen stared at Sherlock and John a beat too long and reddened even more. _He_ certainly wasn’t cold. 

The boys rolled up to Baker Hall. They were rolling through the front when Mary Mortsan ran out. She tripped over Brett and knocked him over where he groaned on the linoleum. 

_“Espèce d'idiot maladroit!_ Why do you not watch where you are going?” Eliza snapped, breaking from Eddy to help Hilary lift Brett. 

Mary collected herself. “I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “Is he alright?”

“It’s okay, Morstan,” said Ryan, helping the girls. “He can’t get any worse than he already is. Besides, I hear you make it a pastime bulldozing small blokes,” he winked. “I’m sure Brett will be flattered.”

Mary’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

Ryan, realizing what he said might have come across sexually, almost dropped Brett himself and apologized. “Not like that! I didn’t—”

But she was already storming off. “But I meant John with the… bike. Oh, goddammit.”

Tyler keeled over. He had to wipe a tear. “You really stepped in it with her, didn’t you? No wonder Abby said no to you!”

Ryan sat down Brett and flipped Tyler off. “Abby said no to me for the same reason Amanda said no to you, you twat! What’s she doing in Baker anyway? Is Mary dating someone?” he asked Molly.

She turned up her palms. “Beats me. The only person she’s ever fancied is John, and he’s—”

 _“Off the market,”_ dripped Sherlock, crushing the boy into the space beneath his armpits. 

John mumbled, but he couldn’t be heard through the muffle of the blanket. 

“And you _won’t_ ,” said Sherlock. “Not until the stench of that woman’s perfume has left the vicinity.”

“What did he say?” asked Molly.

“Nothing,” shrugged Sherlock. “Just that he can’t breathe.”

The gang took the elevator to the seventh floor. They all wished each other goodnight and went their separate ways, but just as Sherlock was about to turn the key to their room and offer John a pot of oolong, a scream rang through the hall. 

“That sounded like Molly,” said John.

He threw Sherlock his coat (which he knew from wearing so often contained weapons in the lining) and shrugged off his blanket, running for Stephen’s room. 

Ryan and Tyler were already there, but everyone else came soon after. 

“What’s wrong?” asked John, but Molly wouldn’t be moved. She kept trying to pull Stephen away, but he was leaning over someone sprawled on the floor. 

He was gasping in Telugu, trying not to cry as he felt vainly for a pulse. 

“He’s… He’s _dead,”_ said Stephen, cradling his brother’s corpse in his arms. Pratheesh’s eyes were open, the whites of them yellowed slightly, and his body didn’t bend like it should. Rigor mortis sets in around three to four hours after death in humans, but they don’t stiffen up till at least twelve. Pratheesh hadn’t been there all day, but he’d been long enough that it was far too late to do anything. 

Sherlock examined the scene. 

Stephen’s room was ordinary, not a hair out of place. The body, then. 

Pratheesh was dressed in his number fourteen and his shorts. His duffle bag was lying close to his body, complete with a Hydro Flask still covered in condensation. He’d been leaving for the game then, missed the haka, couldn’t have died more than two or three hours ago. His face was greying, but not from death, no, a bit of saliva had dried from the corner of his mouth in his beard.

Had he choked? Stopped breathing and had been aware of it before he died? That seemed unlikely, but the signs were there. No strangulation marks covered his neck.

The odd thing was his feet. His boots, the lucky, custom made rugby boots he was always banging on about with the blue, cleat bottoms and the neon laces, those were gone along with his socks. 

“Check his abdomen,” ordered Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, _timing_!” 

John worried about Stephen. He was inconsolable. Even Molly couldn’t get near him. 

“Stephen, I know you’re upset, but I can’t see a reason for this. We need to be sure this is a freak oversight of his healthcare and not something worse. Lift his shirt, _please._ ”

He shot off orders at the lads to phone the police and report a fatality. 

Stephen wasn’t responding. “He was _healthy._ There’s no reason! There’s no reason at all!”

“Then all the more reason to look for one.”

“Sherlock, his brother just died,” said John, pressing Sherlock’s chest in an effort to get him out of the room.

“John, I’m sorry, but look at it. Look at his shoes. Even his socks. Where are they?”

That roused Stephen. He looked around the room, then stood up and ripped through the armoire and the duffle bag. 

“They’re gone!” he said. “Why would he be standing around barefoot?”

Stephen got on his belly and looked under the bed, rooting through things like if he found the boots they might bring Stephen back.

“Careful! You’ll compromise the integrity of the crime scene.”

“Crime scene?” said Molly. Her face grew ashed and she looked at Pratheesh. “The abdomen! Oh, Sherlock, you don’t think it’s like Agatha, do you? But he’s dressed. He’d have no need to shower before a game.”

Molly was right. 

She really was a natural.

“You’re right,” said Sherlock. “But we have to rule everything out.”

He thought of how Hilary had spoken of Brett and considered the possibilities. 

“Molly, Agatha was half Indian. What if this is some… some type of hate crime?” 

It seemed unlikely. The pictures of the girls in the showers had been of women of all races, their only common factor being back or lower body injuries near major arteries or organs. He had to be sure though. 

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. 

“Did he have any back injuries? Like Agatha? Did he wear any compression gear?”

Stephen stood over the body, clenching his fists at his side. 

“No.”

He knelt and lifted the jersey, but there was no knife wound. Instead, they found Pratheesh’s flesh carved out. The words were jagged, but they read clearly.

_Ka mate! Ka mate!_

It is death. It is death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a nerve-wracking chapter because it deals with so many mature topics, and also because a few of these characters are based on real people and were originally only put in the story as Easter eggs, but they took on a life of their own.  
> I'm sure that Hilary Hahn's real family is LOVELY and nothing at ALL like I wrote them here. I'm also sure that the proud states of Maryland and Virginia are better than the state which I'm from and from which I pull so many experiences. This is placed in England, and I hope things are better there. I hope things are better everywhere, and it's just the loud voices of a few that make the majority look bad. 
> 
> Also, I wanted to weave in the theme that just because parents have wrong ideas doesn't mean that those beliefs have to be passed down through their children. So I hope I didn't fuck anything up too terribly. 
> 
> ^  
> explanation/apology premeditatedly right here


	31. The Shoe is on the Other Foot Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can see Molly butting heads with this guy, but okay. 
> 
> I'm not sure about this chapter and how it ends... Anyway, it's the one where we talk about feet a lot. Here it goes.

“Why did they take his shoes?”

He’d asked it over a dozen times, but it was all Stephen could seem to say. He sat at the far end of the couch draped in Greg’s weighted blanket. Molly poured him a steady stream of tea and forced him to drink. The police questioned all of them, then Coach went to the station to “be with his boy,” but left Stephen behind. The two of them agreed it would be best to call Mrs. Goalla together. 

Sherlock asked better questions than the police. 

Better questions, but harder questions.

“Stephen,” Sherlock had asked before he’d retreated to his room to work on the murder wall. “If my calculations are correct, then the estimated time of death is around six o’clock. You came to get John and me around six-fifteen, leaving fifteen minutes before the game and fifteen minutes after you would have already left your room for the pitch. My question is if you came back for John and me, you would have already noticed that Pratheesh was missing. Why didn’t you go check on him? He must’ve been in there as the body showed no signs of being moved. You’re likely the last person to have seen him alive.”

“You’re not seriously accusing Stephen?” Molly had taken up the teapot like she might hurl it at him. 

“No, no!” John had intervened. “That isn’t what he’s saying. It’s a fair question if we want to figure out who did this. Right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock had stood with his hands behind his back, his posture rigid and his eyes calculating as he deduced everyone in the room, but Stephen harshest of all. 

Stephen finally answered, “I… I was always jealous of Pratheesh. He was born in Andhra Pradesh, my mother’s pride. She named him for hope and great expectations. Do you know what my name means?”

He’d looked at Molly. “It’s Sricharan. The feet of Lord Vishnu. I know it should be an honor, but when my mum looks at us, you know he’s her expectation and I’m just stinking feet.”

He’d backhanded his cup into the fireplace. It was nothing more than a drop in the flames.

His lip had trembled. “I didn’t go get him because I didn’t want him to be there. He was sick, and I knew he was sick, but I didn’t check on him because just once I wanted Pratheesh to be the disappointment and not me.”

He’d looked up. “I didn’t kill him, but is it my fault? If I’d checked on him, phoned an ambulance, would my brother still be alive?”

Sherlock hadn’t changed his stance, hadn’t twitched so much as a facial muscle. “I’m not sure.”

He’d then retreated to the room, and John was almost glad of it. They’d never worked a murder, not so much as a case for someone they knew and liked. He’d noticed before, but only now did he realize that Sherlock could be  _ frigid.  _

“It’s not your fault, Stephen, and he’ll tell you that as soon as he has all of the facts. You’ll be able to believe it too because Sherlock always tells the truth.”

That’s what made his cold, deductive reasoning easier to tolerate. 

The boys sat in the common room, only leaving to escort the girls, with the exception of Molly, back to their respective houses before returning. 

“I can’t go back in that room,” said Stephen. “It’s a tomb.”

Molly wrapped a reassuring arm around his shoulders. “You don’t have to. You can stay in any of the boys’ rooms. They can stay in yours if there isn’t enough space.”

The boys exchanged nervous glances. None of them were as practical about death as Molly, and so none of them were itching to volunteer. 

“We will,” said Sherlock, rounding the corner with paper printouts in hand. He threw them on the coffee table. “Good news, Stephen. You are most definitely  _ not  _ at fault. There’s not a thing in the world you could have done.”

John counted to ten. 

Sherlock was smiling slightly and it put him off. 

“What do you mean?” asked Stephen. “How can you possibly know?”

Sherlock held up the files. “I took the liberty of hacking into the coroner’s database."

He laid out the files on the coffee table, beckoning Stephen to join him on the floor. 

“They nailed it. It took them bloody long enough, but they finally found the chain in a toxicology report. I doubt they would have even looked for it if it weren’t for the carvings on his stomach. If it hadn’t been for those making it obviously foul play, it would have been the perfect mur—”

John kicked him in the back and gave him a look like the very word he'd been trying to say. 

Sherlock looked puzzled by this and then studied Stephen. 

“Oh, well… Right. The drug they found in his system isn’t really a drug so much as it is a type of botulinum, type A botulinum toxin to be specific. It’s a type of botulism.”

“Botulism?” said Stephen. “You mean… he was poisoned with rotten food?”

“Not exactly,” said Sherlock. “Let me explain; this type of toxin can come from the intestinal lining of animals, soil, what have you, but it was by no means food poisoning. This particular type of toxin can be used in everything from botox to aerosol for use in biological weapons. It blocks a chemical called acetylcholine, so it can prevent neurons from working in the brain which can lead to headaches, dizziness, and of course, eventual flaccid paralysis, which would corroborate my initial deduction when I noticed saliva dried in your brother’s beard. Botulinum would lead to respiratory failure and suffocation, the case here.”

Stephen paled. “So his sickness… Someone was poisoning him?”

“That’s the interesting thing,” said Sherlock looking giddy, but to his credit, he caught himself and cleared his throat. “This toxin isn’t called the ‘Miracle Poison’ for nothing. It is  _ highly  _ lethal. It is  _ the  _ most poisonous substance known. Less than a millionth of a gram could kill you, and quickly. Depending on the dosage and the method of application, it could take two weeks to show symptoms or it could take six hours, maybe less than that.”

“I don’t understand,” said Stephen. “Pratheesh was sick for maybe three days. Everything hurt on him just like the flu, but he was still up and at it.”

“I’d say it was a high dose, but it was administered very slowly and every day.”

He scooted around, studying the agitation on Stephen’s face. What was it John was always saying? Empathy something. He liked Stephen. He could do empathy.

“Do we need to stop? We can go over this later. I understand that this is … difficult for you. I have an older brother with whom I share a rocky relationship, but if anything happened to him, I would feel—”

_ Your loss would break my heart, Sherlock. _

“—upset. I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Well, I am!” said Stephen, slamming his fist on the table. “I don’t care how he was killed, I care who did it and why! Why don’t you know that already? You know everything!”

Stephen’s chest was heaving, but he seemed to come to himself. Molly laid a hand across his shaking fist.

“I apologize,” said Sherlock, not understanding what he’d done wrong. He looked at John who wasn’t really sure either, except that maybe he needed to dial it back. He  _ was  _ trying.

“I don’t mean to throw so much at you. I really don’t. But nothing clears a case up so quickly as talking about it. I talk at John ceaselessly when we’re on cases. If you would prefer us to work on it alone and get back to you when it’s solved—”

“No,” said Stephen. “I understand. I’m just not… handling it as well as I thought.”

Sherlock thought about his discomfort. 

John often got upset when he delved into something he couldn’t understand. He “dumbed it down” and that usually made him feel better. Perhaps the same approach would work with Stephen.

“When I started using heroin,” said Sherlock, slowly, “I wanted the high as fast as possible. Administering a drug, any drug, is much the same way. Imagine I was taking a drug but in different forms. They’re all the same amount, but I need to make it work the quickest. I could take a pill, snort, or inject, but taking something intravenously— I mean, in the bloodstream — is the fastest. We know it wasn’t that. It would have killed him within a matter of minutes. We also know it wasn’t ingested because that would have killed him in a day, plus there’s the added hurdle of Pratheesh’s food alone being poisoned in the cafeteria without anyone noticing. It could have been airborne, but he’d have to have been in a confined space and it would have affected you too. Was there a time he was ever alone regularly over the course of the last few days?”

Stephen and Molly looked at each other. 

“Sometimes I stay over at Aiken House,” said Stephen. “I come back early in the morning through Greg and Mike’s window. He could have been alone.”

“How long was he feeling sick for?”

Stephen raked his hands through his beard. “I don’t know, two or three days maybe?”

Sherlock nodded. “Just one last question, no, two actually. Did he do anything that could have introduced something to his system daily? A protein shake? A stash of water bottles? Gum he chewed?”

Stephen shook his head. 

The attacks were on student-athletes. It was likely connected to the Bell case _ ,  _ but still… 

“Did Pratheesh have any enemies?”

All of the lads exchanged nervous glances. 

“Are you serious? Who didn’t hate Pratheesh is a better question,” said Ryan. 

Tyler elbowed him in the gut, eying Stephen sympathetically.

“No, it’s okay,” said Stephen, softer than he spoke with Sherlock. “My brother, after you called him out for sleeping with all those girls, wasn’t the most well-liked boy on the team. There was his best mate Ben Farrnon, Philip Anderson, Tristan Herriot, not to mention the three girls. From what I heard, they were none too pleased to find out about each other.”

“I’m sure their boyfriends weren’t either,” mumbled Ryan.

Stephen scowled at his fists shaking in his lap. Sherlock studied his feet, covered in red welts, something that only happened when Stephen was in a heightened emotional state. 

He stacked the files neatly on the table and handed them to John. 

“I think,” he said, “that perhaps you ought to send Molly to fetch your things from your dorm. You can stay in mine and John’s room.” 

He thought about telling him not to touch anything but sensed that he’d stepped on toes somehow. He didn’t normally care, and it frustrated him. How was he supposed to work on the case if he had to solve the mysteries of everyone else’s emotional constipation at the same time? 

He stood and took John by the hand. He didn’t wait for an answer and went back to their room to gather their own particulars. As soon as they walked through the door, John was on him.

“What the hell was that?”

“I’m… sorry? Did I do it not good?”

He genuinely didn’t know. Only hours earlier Hilary Hahn had told him what a considerate, kind person he’d become, but now he didn’t feel like it. He felt irritated and out of his depth and scared because he couldn’t control how everyone else was feeling.

John sighed. “It was… a  _ bit _ not good at the beginning, but you loosened up there at the end. Stephen was agitated, that’s all. He’s grieving. Grieving people are always angry, trust me. You handled it okay. Just try not to smile. Remember it’s  _ murder.” _

How could he forget? And a particularly clever murder at that. How bloody—!”

John crossed his arms and arched a brow at him. 

Whoopsie daisy, he must’ve lost his composure again. 

Sherlock changed his smile to apologetic and hoped it was enough. 

John’s patient tone switched to one of incredulity. 

“It was a life, Sherlock. An actual human life. Don’t you care at all that Pratheesh is dead? ”

Sherlock didn’t understand. “How would caring help?”

“It would help Stephen.”

“How? He says all he wants is to know who did it. Will caring help me find his brother’s killer?”

“Nope,” John popped his lips. He shook his head and paced the room with his arms crossed. 

Sherlock felt his face warm. 

Why didn’t John get it? 

John was supposed to get him.

“Good!” Sherlock spat. “Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake!”

John rounded on him. “And you find that easy, do you?”

“Yes, very! Is that news to you?”

“No!” John paused, exhaling all his pent up anger, then softer, “No.” 

Sherlock studied his body language, realizing something that made his heart drop. 

“... I’ve disappointed you.”

“That’s good,” John sniffed, holding his knuckles at the bow of his lip. “That's a good deduction, yeah.”

Sherlock bristled. 

Was John going to be just like his parents after all?

“Don't make people into heroes, John,” he said quietly. “Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.” 

Sherlock gathered up his things and tossed them in a clothes basket. He was about to snatch his bathrobe and stomp out of the room when John caught him by the shoulder and said, “What if it were me?”

Sherlock paused. 

“What?”

“What if it were me who’d been killed? Would you be smiling about how clever my murder was too?”

The clothes basket slipped out of his hands. He didn’t even hear it drop. 

How could John ask him that? 

He felt his mouth hanging open but couldn’t gather the faculties to close it. He felt gutted. 

“I wouldn’t smile,” he said, “but I wouldn’t  _ care.” _

John looked as though he’d been slapped. 

“I couldn’t care, don’t you see? Caring isn’t an advantage, John, not always because it’s a weakness but because it clouds the mind. If  _ anything  _ happened to you and I allowed myself to care, I would never find who took you away from me. I wouldn’t be able to think straight. Reason, emotion, they’re two contrasting and powerful entities and neither leaves room for the other. I’d be no good to anyone.”

He wanted to reach out for John, only a breath away, but he felt so far. 

“Nothing will ever happen to you, I promise. If it did, I wouldn’t care, I wouldn’t think about it, I wouldn’t sleep until I found who’d stolen you from me. When I got my hands on them,  _ then _ I’d care. I’d let it destroy me and everyone around me, and I wouldn’t give a damn who I took down with me!”

He realized he was shaking. 

“I’m not like Eurus,” he said. “I don’t  _ like  _ that people die. All I care about is the work, in showing people the truth no matter how ugly it is. I don’t put dead bodies on the sidewalk or rob banks, but I can tell people how they got there, how it happened! I give people closure. That’s the comfort I give, not empty words. If you were gone, I wouldn’t want words. I’d want you!”

Sherlock sighed. He felt so far from everyone again, so lonely. Even his fingers felt numb. 

He reflexively tensed his arm. 

_ It’ll make you feel better,  _ the siren called out. 

John twitched forward, but caught himself. 

“Sherlock,” he said, “is it okay if I touch you? I want to talk to you, but I need something to ground me. You can say no of course, but—”

Sherlock reached out and slammed him into a hug. 

“I don’t  _ understand _ ,” he said. “When people are angry with me, when I get too excited, when I hurt their feelings. I can pretend, experiment, but I’m just faking it. I don’t know how to be like everyone else. I wish that I did, but I  _ don’t _ .”

John’s arms hung limply at his side, but then raw emotion broke through the shock on his face and he hugged Sherlock back fiercely. 

“I’m glad that you don’t. I wouldn’t change you. You’re exactly how you’re supposed to be.” He pulled away long enough to hold his palm against Sherlock’s cheek. That always calmed him down. “Don’t get me wrong, you still can’t smile about murder, obviously, not in public anyway. But babe, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten upset with you like that. You’ve been helping. You’ve been nothing but helpful this whole evening. I know how you like puzzles and how cases thrill you. It’s just that I’m worried about Stephen. If it were Harry…”

“I know,” said Sherlock. “I even thought about how broken up I would feel if it were Mycroft, and you know about  _ that. _ I’m sorry I made you disappointed.”

“I disappointed you too,” said John. “That happens. I failed you. I’m supposed to explain situations, not get mad when you need me to elaborate. That’s my function.”

Sherlock dropped his head against John’s shoulder. “I feel like an idiot. I feel like a child.”

“You’re neither of those things. Tensions are high for everyone right now. We’re all doing our best, but we’re bound to be at each other’s throats.”

“This is  _ not _ how I like to be at your throat,” muffled Sherlock. He had his entire face buried in John’s jumper. 

“It’s not how I like to be at yours either.” John paused. “I know you aren’t like Eurus. I’m also not afraid of you. I love you, even though I just did a lousy job of showing it.”

John pondered. “I don’t think you did anything  _ too  _ wrong except for the smiling. That was it. It’s Stephen. He’s all broken up about Pratheesh and he needs someone to blame. Because you called Pratheesh out for sleeping with his mates’ girlfriends and Stephen thinks one of them might have killed him, he’s angry at you.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “That doesn’t stand to reason.” 

John patted his hair. “Well, think about Victor. You talk about your anger in therapy all the time, but it’s always directed at Mycroft.”

“Mycroft took my memories! He lied to me!”

“That’s true,” John replied. “But Eurus is the one who killed him.”

Sherlock stilled. 

“Why don’t you blame Eurus? You’re afraid of becoming her, but you never blame her. It’s her fault.”

A knock came at the door. 

“Sherlock? John? It’s me, Molly. Can Stephen and I come in?”

The boys broke away. John scooped over and gathered Sherlock’s things in the clothes basket. 

“Do you have everything?”

He nodded. “What about you? I didn’t see you grab any pajamas.”

“Don’t need ‘em.”

Sherlock’s face burned. “You just lectured me on not smiling about murder, now you want to…” He rolled his hips. “... in a room where someone died?”

“Jesus! Why is your mind in the gutter so much lately? Wait.” John looked down at the box still sitting out in the open in their room and scrambled to stash it in the armoire. “ _ Don’t, _ ” he said. “Do  _ not _ answer that question! What I mean is, I figure I won’t need pajamas because you’ll keep me up all sodding night searching Stephen’s—”

“Are you two going to let us in or not?” called Molly, growing impatient. 

Sherlock pulled open the door and ushered the two inside. John just barely hid the cuffs and riding crop behind his back and shoved them in the mini-fridge. 

“Apologizes, Molly. John and I were just discussing, um, whether or not the wall would be unsettling.”

Molly looked at the wall. The crumpled papers nailed into the plaster and connected by red string covered every available surface except a yellow, dripping paint blot. The drawings, though graphic, didn’t show Pratheesh, but there was a blown-up picture of his cleats with a black question mark drawn over them. She looked at Stephen and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“It’s okay,” said Stephen. “Thank you for switching for the night. It means a lot.”

“Yes, well, it’s the least I could do.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I am… sorry? If I made you sad or angry earlier?”

He looked at Molly for a cue. If he looked at John, they would think he’d put him up to it, but he really did want to apologize. He just didn’t know how in a situation like this. Shouldn’t he have known? He’d found Victor. He’d lost someone for a senseless reason. 

Why didn't he blame Eurus?

Stephen folded his lips and nodded. “It’s okay, mate. I just wanna be alone right now, if it’s all the same with you.”

Sherlock nodded back. He took the clothes basket from John and made his way to the other side of the building. Stephen’s room went past the stairs overlooking the common area. Greg sat across from the fire by himself, talking to someone on the phone and plucking at his lip with his fingernails. Who else would he be calling at this hour if not Mycroft? Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

Once a snitch, always a snitch, he supposed.

John opened the door. 

“Here,” he said, holding out Sherlock’s collapsible magnifying glass. 

Sherlock put the basket on his hip and patted his pockets. Sure enough, the magnifying glass was gone.

“When did you—?”

“YouTube.” He tossed it over his shoulder as he sauntered into the room. “Figured I might need to pickpocket you when  _ you  _ were annoying.”

John pulled out his phone and started taking pictures. 

“You’d think the rozzers would still have this place locked down as a crime scene. It’s only been five hours. Incompetent,” John tutted, cataloging the whole place.

God, he loved him. 

“Do you think there are security cameras in the stairwell? I know there are in the elevator, but if our killer is smart enough to use a toxin like botulinum, surely they’d be smart enough for the stairs.”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, no. I sort of fried the cameras in the stairwell earlier in the year for … personal reasons.”

“And why would they go to all the trouble of a slow-working poison to give them a solid alibi if later they were just gonna come back and carve Maori into the man’s gut? I mean, that doesn’t make any sense! What do you think, Sherlock?”

_ Not much at the moment, if I’m being honest.  _

Had they worked a case since they got together? Jesus Christ, if brainy wasn’t the new sexy he’d—

“Babe?”

Sherlock took hold of his senses. This was a murder investigation. He’d always wanted a murder investigation. Stay focused, dammit.

“Are you in your mind palace again? We talked about this. You gotta give a man some warning. That shit can be scary.”

“I’m not!” he slurred. “I’m… thinking.”

He surveyed the room.

“Your observation is a keen one, Watson. Why would a killer go to the trouble of concocting a potent and slow working toxin only to risk exposure later? I read the report fully and, against my own observations as well, it checks out that the cuts were made post mortem. Someone knew this poison, knew it well enough to figure down to the window the hour in which Pratheesh Goalla would die. This kind of behavior is usually only seen in either crime families trying to send a message or in serial killers. We’ll have to learn more about Pratheesh’s personal life. His phone has been impounded for evidence, but his laptop is still here.” 

He tossed the laptop to John. 

“Let’s hack into that little goldmine there and start digging.”

“And what about the serial killer theory?” said John, crawling up to the top bunk. 

“That’s the thing. A serial killer usually always kills the same way. Linking crimes is no big deal for them because they get off on the risk. Part of them wants to be caught so they can take credit for their crimes. This doesn’t bear any similarity to the Bell case except that they were student-athletes.”

“So is it a hate crime? It has to be something.”

“I really don’t think so. Don’t kill me, but I think, and you'll never hear me say this again, that it might be a coincidence.”

“A coincidence!” said John. 

The word was practically banned in their household.

“Practicing serial killer still seems the most likely. Could be refining his technique to see what he wants to go with. The last one was botched, after all.” He tugged on John’s foot dangling in front of his face. “Hand me the laptop. I’ll crack it for you.”

“No need.”

Sherlock was astounded. “Did you YouTube that too?”

John pulled his feet back and hung his torso over the side. 

“You know,” he said, staring into Sherlock’s eyes. “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”

Sherlock paused. “... you texted Molly, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

The boys worked tirelessly combing through files and discussing the case. Sherlock searched the air vents, the mini-fridge, everything, but came up empty. He couldn’t figure the shoes. Serial killers steal items from their victims as trophies, but Agatha maintained that nothing was taken from her. Was her attempted killer waiting for her to die too before he returned? Sherlock should have worked harder, shouldn’t have allowed himself a distraction. If he’d been more diligent on the Bell case Pratheesh might still be alive.

He might have stayed on that train of thought except the top bunk shuffled and John’s foot fell over the edge and slapped him in the face.

“Ow! John!”

Sherlock rubbed his eye. 

“You need to cut your damn toenails.”

John didn’t answer.

“John?”

Sherlock climbed the ladder. He found John fallen asleep sideways on the bunk, the laptop on his belly shining blue light across his lax face. His arms flopped out like he’d been crucified. John always slept with his lips parted, and it gave him the most terrible morning breath.

Sherlock smirked. He gathered the sleeping boy in his arms and tucked him under the covers. Stephen’s room was even colder than theirs. If they weren’t sleeping together, John would need socks and an extra blanket at the least. 

He slid down the ladder and looked through the basket. John had brought everything including snacks enough to last the siege of Leningrad, but no socks.

Careless.

Sherlock pawed through what he deduced was Stephen’s sock drawer. He cringed at the sight. No index, no color coordination, just socks burritoed at random, not even paired correctly. Figuring any pair would be as good as the next, he grabbed a couple to double up on John’s feet when he felt something stuffed inside. He reached in and produced an empty tube of cortisone cream. 

He froze. 

“John Watson, you brilliant son of a bitch.”

He climbed the ladder and whacked John with a stray cricket bat he found leaning against the wall.

“Wake up! We’ve got a problem.”

John jolted and nearly fell out of the bunk, but Sherlock caught him by the seat of his trousers and flung him to the bed below.

“We’ve got a murder in progress! Come on!” 

Sherlock bolted out the door. John sat for a moment, wondering why the furniture was in the wrong place and why he and Sherlock weren’t sleeping together when—”

“Oh, shit!” 

He padded in the hall in his bare feet. 

“Sherlock!”

He caught sight of his dark curls flashing past the stairs and picked up the pace. 

“Where are we going? Who’s in progress where?”

To his shock, Sherlock skidded to a stop in front of room 221, their own dorm, and nearly kicked the door down.

“Molly!” he kept kicking. “Molly, open up!”

Molly narrowly dodged a shoe to the shin. “Christ, Sherlock! It’s three in the morning!”

“Is he breathing?”

“What?”

“Your boyfriend, is he breathing? Did he put eczema cream on his feet? You didn’t touch any did you?” He rounded. “John, call an ambulance.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Molly. “Yeah, he put some on. He’s sleeping.”

“And pretty fucking heavy for all the noise I’m making!”

Molly’s angry expression fell. She flicked on the lights and ran to Stephen lying in their bed. He was grey, breathing shallowly.

John shot off the address to the dispatcher. “We’ve a boy here on the seventh floor of Baker Hall, we think he’s been poisoned with botulinum toxin, type A. His blood type is AB positive and his approximate weight is one hundred and fifty pounds.”

“Oh my God, is he going to die?” shrieked Molly. She looked at Sherlock. “It’s the cream! His cream Pratheesh was using? He’s only used it once tonight. Why is he getting sick faster? Pratheesh was sick for days!”

“Pratheesh was heavier, that and he had a fungus feeding off of the steroid cream.”

Sherlock ripped back the covers and looked at Stephen’s feet. 

“He’s scratched them fucking  _ raw _ , too. It introduced it to his bloodstream.”

Molly took Stephen’s fevered hand in her own, sobbing. “John, do something!”

John took Stephen’s vitals while he stayed on the phone. “He’s been fucking poisoned, Molly. There isn’t a lot more we can do.”

He handed the phone to Molly and gathered Stephen under his arms. 

“He doesn’t have time for an ambulance. Babe, do you remember what you told me about you and Mrs. Hudson in Monaco?”

“Yeah?” said Sherlock.

“Breckenridge drives a Lexus and it’s parked nearby,” he called, darting down the stairs. “It’s time to put your criminal background to good use!”

_______________________________________________________________________

Sherlock and John sat across from Molly in the waiting room.

They weren’t speaking to each other.

“That’s the second time I’ve stolen a car in your presence.”

“Yep,” said John, popping his lips. “Molly did not handle your driving as well as I’d hoped.”

When they'd arrived at hospital, the staff had thought that both Stephen  _ and _ Molly had been poisoned and had tried to put her on a gurney, but she’d protested saying that she didn’t want to see wheels again as long as she lived.

She’d been absolutely green.

“Do you think Breckenridge is going to press charges? You can’t afford any more trouble with your mum.”

“Don’t worry about it,” shrugged John. “I texted Greg to text Mycroft to text Breckenridge.”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “Molly puked in the Lexus so much Mycroft might just buy him a new one.”

“He should. The old man sure puts up with a lot, doesn’t he? Shame he’s talking about retiring.”

They waited all morning until the coach showed up. He thanked the three of them for rushing Stephen to hospital and sat in a corner by himself. Coach Goalla wasn’t a religious man, but he folded over and prayed. He prayed so quickly his words blurred together until Sherlock couldn’t understand what he was saying. A few of the nurses threw him the odd glance, and a doctor even asked him to keep it down, but the old man flipped them off and prayed even louder. John walked over and gripped his shoulder. 

Coach looked up. 

“Do you care if I join you?” he asked.

Coach nodded and told him to pull up a chair, but John only made the sign of the cross and took a knee beside him, tugging his bronze pendant of Saint Elizabeth out of his shirt. They stayed together a long time, long enough for Coach to teach John a mantra for Lord Hanuman, but not long enough for him to master it. Sherlock smiled, listening as John unwittingly butchered a perfectly good language. He was trying, trying hard enough that it made Coach Goalla, who never expressed approval at anything, nod his head and quirk the corner of his mouth. 

“Why my sons?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” said John, “but we’ll find out. He’ll be okay.”

“Pratheesh isn’t.”

John had nothing to say at that. Sherlock was right about one thing, he thought. The truth is what people want. Encouraging words won’t bring back a dead son. 

_ If you were gone, I wouldn’t want words. I’d want you! _

A doctor finally came out of the ER. 

“Mr. Goalla?” 

The coach stood. “Yes?”

If he twisted his cap anymore he’d break the bill.

“Your son is stable.”

Coach almost fell from relief. Molly collapsed in her chair. Sherlock caught her around the waist and attempted to console her, but he didn’t know what the hell for. Stephen was fine. Why was she crying so damn hard into his coat collar?

“We have Stephen on an antitoxin and a ventilator. He’ll be able to go home by the end of the day, but we may keep him overnight for observation. The type of bacterium he was exposed to is a neurotoxic protein, which can affect the commands his brain gives to the rest of his body and cause organ failure. It should be fine now, but we just want to be safe.”

Coach agreed enthusiastically. “Yes, I want him here for as long as it takes. No chances. Can I see him?”

The nurse nodded. “Absolutely. We’re keeping it to family right now so he can get his rest.”

“Rest! He’d be resting permanently if not for these sons of bitches!” 

He slapped Sherlock and John on the back so hard they staggered. 

“We’re all going back, the little woman too.”

He jerked his head toward Molly, who wasn’t sure how she felt about being called a little woman, but any progress with Stephen’s notoriously ill-tempered father was better than nothing.

Coach Goalla slung open the door to Stephen’s room before a nurse could do it and gathered him in a hug. 

Stephen was barely awake and panting into his ventilator. He popped it out and waved weakly over his dad’s shoulder. “Hi, Molly. I think I’m high.”

“High?” said Molly. “I thought you were only on an antitoxin?”

He pointed down at his dad’s back, mouthing.

“My father is  _ hugging me.” _

Coach pulled back. “You bastard. What do you mean scaring the shit out of everyone? Your brother just died!”

“Bastard?” said Stephen. He sucked on his ventilator. “That says a hell of a lot more about you than it does me! You would know!”

He reloaded on oxygen while his father laid into him. 

“You fool! Didn’t you know any better than to use the same lotion that killed Pratheesh?”

“I didn’t know! I didn’t even know till a nurse told me how I ended up here! You’re the one who left me to go ‘be with your boy.’ What? Am I good enough now that I’m the only one left?”

Coach, for the first time in their relationship, didn’t clap back. He didn’t say anything, and it shook Stephen worse than being poisoned. 

“Dad… I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” His adam’s apple bobbed. “Dad, it’s my fault. It’s my fault, Dad. I didn’t go check. I knew he was sick, but I didn’t go check. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. It’s—”

“Enough.” 

Coach shut him down with the kind of single-word authority that only a parent can. 

He inhaled, shakily. 

“What happened to Pratheesh was not your fault. The police, they told me that he was… he was gone before the match even started. I’m his father and his coach. I should have been the one that found him. It never should have fallen to you, but it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

Stephen’s eyes watered until he couldn’t see. The coach took him in his arms again and said, “It shouldn’t take one son’s death for a father to hold the other.”

At that, Stephen fell apart. 

“Let’s go,” said Molly, ushering the boys out of the room. “You go ahead back to school. I’ll take the bus.”

“Wait!”

Stephen pushed his father away and took the IV out of his arm. 

“Stephen, what are you doing?”

The boy staggered, barely holding himself up. He took a breath of his oxygen and walked over to Molly, taking her hand and holding it in his across his abdomen. He barked something that sounded like a challenge as he looked his dad square in the eye. 

“Dad, this is my girlfriend. Her name is Molly, and she’s the smartest person I know. I said she was the best girl in all of England, but she’s the best period.”

His dad walked toe to toe with him and he shrunk a bit, but held firm. 

“I’m in love with her, sir.”

Sherlock didn’t know who was more shocked, Molly or Stephen himself. 

Sherlock dipped his chin down and whispered to John. “We didn’t move  _ that  _ fast.”

“Shush!”

Coach cocked a brow. He walked in front of Molly, studying her from her head to her feet. “I remember you from the match. You curse worse than I do.” He slapped his hand on her shoulder. “You’ll fit in just fine.”

He turned to his son. “You better pray she’s the smartest person you know because you’re a dumbass. I don’t care about your little girlfriend, son.” He pulled him in and whispered in his ear. “But you’re telling your mum.” He pushed away. “Get him back in bed, would you Dolly?”

“Molly, Coach.”

The coach shrugged. “You,” he pointed at Sherlock. “They say you solve shit.”

“Sure. Loads.”

“You figure out who killed my boy yet?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Not yet, but I know that Pratheesh wasn’t the target.”

Coach Goalla lost his tough persona. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Sherlock, “that they weren’t trying to kill Pratheesh.”

He knew the truth. He was sure of it.

“They were trying to kill Stephen.”


	32. Notorious Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With tensions high, the Notorious Nine threatens to break apart. 
> 
> Not if the most trusted agent in MI6 has anything to say about it.

Stephen returned to school four days later. Nobody expected him to come back. After Sherlock’s revelation, Coach declared that Conan wasn’t safe for his remaining son and ordered him into hiding at their family estate in the north of Dorset where his mother lived. Stephen’s parents had divorced when he was young, and though Mrs. Goalla had custody and the majority of the family funds, he preferred living with his father in nearby Avebury. 

“If Stephen would rather slum it with Coach than stomach four days with that old broad,” Ryan had said, “then she must be a monster.”

He came through the elevator doors and marched into his and Pratheesh’s room. He flung down his bags and slammed the door, refusing to answer anybody, even Molly.

“I don’t understand,” said Molly. “He’s worse now than he was before.”

“Delayed emotional response,” said Sherlock. “It happens in victims and is a major defense for those accused of murder when they seem apathetic to the police.”

“Being home without Pratheesh for the first time couldn’t have been good for him either,” said Mike. “Can you imagine going home and your sibling is just… gone?”

“I can,” said Greg. He hung his head in his hands. 

No one had been there for him with Chloe. Even if Stephen didn’t want them, he had to know that he wasn’t alone.

“Stephen Goalla is one of our best mates. We can’t just leave him to stew in his room.”

The gang organized a candlelight vigil for Pratheesh. Students spilled across the lawn beneath Stephen’s window that night holding signs and flowers and photographs of the deceased right-wing. The girls must’ve collected three sacks full of sympathy cards filled with stories about Pratheesh, but Stephen didn’t want to see them. 

“Leave them in the supply closet,” said Greg. “We can’t expect him to be ready so soon.”

Coach came in after the vigil pounding on the door. Apparently, he hadn’t realized that Stephen was back in school. 

“Why isn’t your ass in Dorset? You’re going back right now!”

“No!” yelled Stephen. “I’m not leaving my friends!”

“From what I’ve heard, you haven’t even left your room to see your friends!”

“You can’t make me! I’m not going back to live with that bitch!”

“Watch your damn mouth! What’s gotten into you? You can’t talk about your mother like that!”

“You do!” said Stephen. “Do you know what she said? She said, ‘It’s no surprise they killed the wrong one. I think they killed the wrong one too!’”

Coach stopped jerking at the doorknob. 

“Well, that sounds like something a bitch would say.”

Stephen cracked the door. It was the first time anyone had seen him since he went in. His pajama bottoms were damp with sweat and wrinkled, and his large eyes were bloodshot with dark circles. His beard was longer, but smudged with crumbs and dried yogurt. The bright disposition that made his shy nature so charming was replaced with one of gloom. 

“Don’t make me go back, Dad. Let me stay with you. I want to keep going to school.”

Coach huffed. “It isn’t up to me. Your mum has custody, Stephen. You know that.”

“But she’s never home!” Stephen threw the door wide, revealing the broken furniture and the overturned armoire. “Which is the only good thing about Dorset. We can go back to court.”

“And do what? Testify that while I’m off the boos I still managed to let one of my sons get murdered on my watch? Is that your plan?” 

Coach shook.

“Pack up, Stephen, and say goodbye to your friends. You’re going home in the morning.”

“But Conan is home!” 

His protests fell on deaf ears. Coach got in the elevator, but Sherlock thought as the doors closed that he’d seen his stoic expression shatter.

“Blimey,” said Mike. “He’s a runaway? That’s why he’s hiding?”

“ _ I’m  _ the one who feels like a bitch,” said Molly. “We outed him. Now he’ll have to go back.”

“It isn’t your fault,” said Greg. “It was my idea. I take responsibility.”

That’s what did it. That’s the very moment that Tyler Briggs snapped. He could take abuse from Stephen. He could even take sadness in Molly. But he would  _ not _ see his Captain disparage himself for doing what a leader should.

“Now that’s enough out of every single last one of you!” Tyler slammed down his coffee mug, chipping the handle and sloshing coffee on his sleeve. “Do you think it would have been any better if the police had come with warrants and started accusing Coach of kidnapping? Stephen can’t bury himself in his room and expect Satan’s tits — I’m sorry —  _ his mum _ to just leave him alone. He’s her sole heir now. She would have come for him eventually. This is nobody’s fault, least of all you two prats.”

He flung his sleeve and splattered coffee drippings across the table like a Pollock painting. Tyler crossed his legs and took up his mug once more.

“My dad always said it was the innocent arseholes who were the hardest to defend on the stand because they’re the ones who act the most guilty. I thought the old sod was full of shit, but you lot have proven me wrong.”

He dumped what was left of his coffee on the fire and stormed to his room. Pratheesh’s death shook them all worse than they ever could have expected. Secretly, they all feared it would be the end of the Notorious Nine.

No one could really believe they were losing Stephen, but Molly took it hardest of all. 

“I just want to help him,” she told Sherlock when he walked her back to Aiken House. 

“Briggs is right, shockingly enough,” he replied. “It would have been worse the longer it went on.”

“How did you bear it?” asked Molly, clinging to his arm as they walked through the night breeze. “When John was gone, I know you were upset. I was there. But when you had the case, you seemed to perk up. You seemed better. I can’t imagine anything making me feel better.” 

Molly drooped. She reminded him of a wilted flower. 

“I didn’t bear it,” said Sherlock. “I spent the whole of our time apart nagging you about being more like John, overdosing on cocaine, and, most disturbingly of all, emotional eating.”

He shuddered. 

“Mycroft would have a field day if he knew.”

Molly stopped them at the door. 

“That isn’t funny.”

“Then why are you smiling.”

She reached up and touched his face like John did. If anyone else had tried it, Sherlock would have broken their wrist. He regretted not breaking James’s. But Molly Hooper occupied a strange and special place in his heart. She was afforded privileges no one else was. 

“I’m happy,” she said. “I’m happy that you’re getting better. I don’t ever want anything like that to happen to you again.” She jerked him down by the collar, suddenly scowling and holding a finger in his face. “And if it does, I’ll kill you, Sherlock Holmes!”

He smiled. “Do make it clever. I’d hate for someone else to solve my own murder. How embarrassing.”

Molly let him go. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, Molly.”

He watched to make sure she made it in alright and she waved from the window. Sherlock never went in with her if he could help it. He said the smell of Mary’s perfume gave him a headache, but really he couldn’t abide the woman. She was a liar, a  _ cat person, _ and Molly didn’t get on with her. Molly got on with  _ everyone. _ Of course, Molly liked cats too, but Sherlock would never hold anything silly like that against Molly. 

He sighed. “You can come out now. I know you’re there.”

Sherlock turned around and found Stephen creeping from behind a tree. 

“Why won’t you talk to Molly? She deserves a goodbye at the very least. You could do long distance. This is the modern age.”

Stephen sat in the damp grass. He was dressed better than he had been, in jeans and a gamer shirt.

“You said that you were in love with Molly. You weren’t lying. I checked. So what’s changed?”

Stephen leaned back against the tree, all of the exhaustion of the last four days finally catching up with him. “I have a target on my back, Sherlock. It killed my brother. I don’t want it to kill Molly too.”

“I can protect you.”

“Can you?” shot Stephen. “Because you never caught who shish-kabobed Agatha. You didn’t bust them and now Pratheesh is dead. You’ve got a lot of confidence, but I haven’t seen any payoff.”

He folded his arms, sneering into the darkness. 

Sherlock spoke. “You have a right to be angry. I should have worked harder on the Bell case, but we ran out of leads. I searched the whole of Kipling. Our killer wasn’t there. I could search all the boys dorms from Baker to Barrie and the girls from Aiken to Wollstonecraft. I didn’t do as much as I could for you, Stephen, and I’m sorry.”

Sherlock crouched in the grass beside him. “But this time we know who he’s aiming for. Agatha and Pratheesh, I don’t even know how they’re connected—”

“We’re all  _ Indian, _ so that seems pretty obvious,” Stephen scoffed. 

“I don’t think so. I think someone wants it to look that way after Agatha, but that still doesn’t explain why  _ you. _ There are dozens of other Indian students on campus, dozens of Indian student-athletes, but they went after  _ you. _ You’re a specific target, something we didn’t have in the Bell case. We can protect you. We know that he’s coming.”

“And Molly?” said Stephen. “If the shoe were on the other foot you’d leave John in a heartbeat if you thought it would keep him safe. If they really want me, then the people I love are targets, and to hell with whatever the reason is. My dad is right. Dorset is the safest place.” He leaned his head on his knees. “For everyone.”

Sherlock stood. “I’ll make Conan a safe place for you again, Stephen. I promise you. Whatever it takes, I will restore your faith in me.”

He began to walk away.

“Wait!” he heard Stephen racing up behind him. “Sherlock, there’s something you should know. Outside of our group, no one knows about my eczema. I’ve never told anyone and I’ve sworn the lads to secrecy. I don’t think Pratheesh would have told anyone either because I would have gone off on his athlete’s foot. I just… I don’t understand how anyone would have known, and it’s only when I’m nervous like before a match. You don’t think that… that it’s one of the lads, do you?”

Sherlock whipped around. “The lads? You doubt  _ the boys _ ? What about in the showers? There are other rugby players. Surely one of them could have seen your feet!”

Stephen frowned. “I don’t _want_ to suspect my friends!”

“Is that why you’re avoiding everyone?” said Sherlock. “Because you want to protect Molly but you don’t trust the rest of us?”

“You never trusted anyone before!”

“I didn’t, but I know better now!”

Sherlock stopped, heaving. 

“Stephen, you’re grieving. You aren’t thinking clearly. Your friends didn’t betray you and Molly doesn’t need protecting. When I… When I found my best friend’s body, I was seven years old. My sister killed him. That traumatized me for years. I still don’t even know how to talk about it, to remember it, and I let my guilt and anger over Victor make me alone. Don’t let Pratheesh’s loss make you alone too. It’s okay to be angry at me. Blame me for anything you want, but if you push Molly and the lads away, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

He stormed away, ignoring Stephen calling out behind him. 

_______________________________________________________________________

“Do you want to talk about it?” said John, snuggled up behind Sherlock with his knee between his legs. 

Sherlock had worked for hours on the case, dragging John all over campus, the village, and at one point even hacking into an international database. He should have been in his element, but if anything, he seemed plagued. 

Sherlock didn’t answer him, but turned around and buried his face in John’s neck. 

“Stephen was a dick to you, wasn’t he?” asked John. “I saw him leave the room and follow you. I think on top of everything else, he’s still jealous of you and Molly.”

“Why does it  _ bother _ me?” said Sherlock. “I’ve been insufferable my whole life and I’ve never cared before!”

“Because it’s your friend,” said John, kissing his hair, “and because this time you don’t deserve it. I always feel a whole hell of a lot angrier when someone punishes me for something I didn’t do rather than something I did do.”

“But isn’t it my fault?” said Sherlock. “How is some ordinary person pulling the wool over my eyes? I should have solved it by now!”

John played absently with the exposed hipbone peeking from beneath Sherlock’s pajama pants. He had the smoothest skin, and the extra food looked good on him, filling him out in places John would like to explore. 

“Darling, you can’t possibly be expected to ‘know everything,’ or whatever bullshit Stephen’s spitting. Besides, how do you know it’s an ordinary person? If there are good super-geniuses, then surely there are evil super-geniuses too.”

Sherlock sulked, cuddling even deeper into John’s jumper. 

“That’s it.” John kissed him on the nose and slapped his butt on the way to the armoire. “We are going on a date.”

Sherlock sat bolt upright. “A date? During this mess?” 

“Absolutely during this mess! I’m your boyfriend, and therefore it is my responsibility to care for your emotional well-being. Now put these on.”

John shot a pair of his own underwear in Sherlock’s face. 

“If you want to wear anything else, that’s up to you.”

John dressed in a hurry, multitasking on his mobile until he slipped on one of his own trouser legs. Sherlock changed as well and shot off an email of his own. The two of them kissed while texting over the others shoulder before leaving the building. 

“I was getting us an uber and checking times. What were you doing?”

"Well..." Sherlock pulled back his lips and showed his teeth in one of those expressions that indicate cringe-worthy disaster. “Either something _good_ or a scheme that will blow up in my face.”

“Sounds about right.” 

John opened the door. 

“Where are we going?” asked Sherlock.

“You’ll see.”

The uber drove them all the way to Swindon past the malls and the historic buildings and the murals covering the downtown area. Eventually, they pulled off the highway and drove into a less developed part of town. The road became wooded, and Sherlock saw that they were pulling into a gravel parking lot. The building wasn’t so much a structure as it was a hollowed-out space. It was curved like a tunnel for trains, reinforced with steel and stone. The establishment settled into the side of a hill, and Sherlock deduced that it was once a large air-raid shelter.

“You’re taking me to a shooting range?” asked Sherlock.

How cute. John didn’t have a prayer of out-shooting him. When they played with the paintball gun, he was always asking Sherlock to come up behind him and adjust his aim. John, that cheeky fellow. If he’d wanted to cuddle, they could have just stayed at home.

Sherlock’s face lit up with a shit-eating grin, but not as shit-eating as John’s. 

“Well, I figured that you ought to learn how to shoot since you’re always in the line of fire.”

How absolutely precious. 

“I already know how to shoot,” said Sherlock, but he went hand in hand with John anyway.

John led them to a wall of firearms. 

“Take your pick,” said John, motioning to all the rentals. “You’ve got your handguns, the SIG P226, a Beretta 92, and a few Glock 17s, but I’d go with the SIG. It’s my favorite. Out of those, you’ll have a couple of options, but the P226 is just my preference. The SIG P320 is perfectly fine as well. My dad was a Glock man all the way, so no judgment.”

“... um, okay. Thank you.”

“If you want to work your way up to rifles, let me know. The M4 is okay, but the SA80 is the kind my dad used. It’s the kind issued to the army. A lot of people think it’s pretty fucking awful, to be honest. I’ve heard stories. It jams, pieces fall off, and this one here doesn't even have a guard around the magazine release catch.”

John tutted at the weapon. 

“The M4 is what the Americans use. It can fire 1,691 mean rounds between stoppages,” he said, touching the weapon with reverence. He shook himself out of it. “Of course, you don’t have to limit yourself to military grade weapons. Look around. Choose whatever you want.”

John kissed him on the cheek and whipped out a driver's license. 

“When did you get one of those?”

“Shush!” 

John swaggered up to the counter and paid the range officer for paper targets and ammo for his own choice, the aforementioned SIG, and waited for Sherlock to take his pick. He went with the same model and John paid for everything. It must’ve wiped out three weeks' worth of allowance, but he wouldn’t hear of Sherlock paying for anything. 

John handed him eye and ear protection and walked into the empty bay. He pointed his gun down-range and got himself adjusted while Sherlock copied him. He had the sneaking suspicion that this wasn’t John’s first time at the range, and felt even more like he’d been played. 

“You gave that range officer a fake ID, didn’t you?”

“Oh, hush. You’ve got fake clearances that could get me into top-secret bases or Area 51 for all I know.”

Sherlock tilted his glasses down the tip of his nose and checked out his boyfriend, setting up the targets on electric hangers that zoomed forward and shot back. He’d never seen this side of John, this bad-boy rule-breaker who loaded magazines and racked back his SIG with the muscles of his forearms flexing.

“Step to the back of the room and wear your protection properly!”

_ Yes, sir. _

He suddenly had some very different ideas about who he wanted using that riding crop.

Sherlock stepped back and pushed his glasses up. He loaded his own magazine and racked his gun. He didn’t know why he felt nervous. He’d been firing handguns since he was seven, ever since that unfortunate run-in with Mrs. Hudson’s husband. 

The boys stood back and fired round after round. When they’d finished, John flipped the switch to bring his target forward. Sherlock did the same, but was shocked to find that while his rounds had found their targets, the head and the chest, around eighty percent of the time, John’s were dead headshots without fail. 

Sherlock’s mouth hung open, flabbergasted. “B-but you… In the dorm, with the paintball gun—”

John had one of those awful smirks where you don’t show any teeth but the corners of your mouth go all the way to your eyes. Smug, the bastard was smug!

“You!” said Sherlock. “You  _ lied to me?” _

“Not all the way to a lie,” said John. “I’d really never played around with paintballs before.”

It took Sherlock a moment to get his words together. 

“But you always had me coming up behind you and adjusting your aim.”

“Yeah,” said John. “It’s cute when you teach something wrong. That and it’s always great to feel your front pressed against my back.”

John purred.

Sherlock gaped, so John fixed another target and reloaded. 

“My dad took me to the range for as long as I can remember. The only other kid I know who’s as good an aim as me is Harry. Normally she outshines me in every endeavor, but firearms? Nah, _I’m_ the fire, baby.”

John fired again, this time obviously showing off and he shot a clean line all the way from the top of the head to the bottom of the torso.

“Well,” said Sherlock, fixing his target and flicking the safety on his gun, “I suppose you’ll have to rectify the situation. Oh wait, you’ll need a chair to stand on, won’t you?”

“Haha, very funny, Harry,” said John, rolling his eyes. He came up behind Sherlock and adjusted his aim, whispering more than pointers in his ear.

Sherlock fired and hit the head dead-center.

“Better?” asked John, his hands still on the boy’s wrists.

“Better,” breathed Sherlock.

_______________________________________________________________________

A figure of a lady dressed in a tight pencil skirt and a navy blazer ascended the stairs of the Goalla estate. For her, no door was locked. No property was private. It was a privilege she rarely abused, but today she would make an exception.

The woman sashayed down the hallway, the sound of her stiletto heels echoing against the marble as her brown hair swished behind her. She turned the knob to the study door and she let herself inside, happy to collapse on the long, Chelsea sofa sitting in front of the fireplace. 

The owner of the home, a middle-aged woman with a light complexion and frown lines, looked up from her desk. 

“Who let you in here?” asked Mrs. Goalla.

The woman lit a cigarette, bouncing her crossed leg casually. She took a drag and exhaled, standing. 

“I let me in here.” 

She threw the files on the desk. 

“You’re going to want to take a look at those.  _ Carefully.” _

Mrs. Goalla took the files, and the longer she read over them, the angrier she became. 

“Pressing the security button won’t help you.”

She pulled a gun out of her desk, aiming it square at the woman’s chest.

“I’m afraid,” she motioned to the windows, “that shooting me wouldn’t do much good either.”

Mrs. Goalla turned, noticing for the first time the red lasers pointed towards her body.

“People can say what they want to about my boss, about the long hours and the ridiculous requests, but one can’t really fault his— Shall we say?—  _ phenomenal  _ life insurance policy. But still, I’d hate for you to feel an ax was hanging over your head.”

The woman snapped her fingers and the lasers disappeared.

“Why don’t you put the gun down, Mrs. Goalla? Then the two of us can speak more comfortably.”

She sat and took the liberty of pouring herself a glass of her host’s sherry. She slid a glass across the desk to Mrs. Goalla.

She didn’t drink it.

“Who are you?”

The woman took a sip and tapped the ashes off the end of her cigarette. 

“My name is Anthea Khan, and unless you want that little story there to get out, you’re going to do exactly as I say.”

Mrs. Goalla scowled and pushed the files and the glass across and over the front of the desk, splashing sherry all over Anthea, who didn’t look concerned in the least.

“I wish you’d stop doing that,” said Mrs. Goalla, going back to whatever business she’d been occupied with before this intrusion. “You’ll get ashes on the carpet.”

Anthea exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You aren’t concerned about your reputation?”

“Why should I be?” said Mrs. Goalla. “India and Pakistan are not at war. Selling munitions to both sides isn't illegal.”

“No,” said Anthea, “but it might not be good for business. The files are all there, but that wasn’t the dirty little secret to which I’m referring. I told you to read it carefully. I know I can’t prove it, but I know someone who can. I’m talking about the journalist from Kashmir.”

Mrs. Goalla stopped writing, but only for a moment. 

“There are lots of journalists from Kashmir,” she said. “All of them printing misleading information and glorifying terrorism.”

“And you don’t like people taking photos of your handiwork, do you?”

Mrs. Goalla looked up with fire in her eyes. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m  _ saying  _ that you're a rich, greedy woman whose government contracts aren’t enough for her and sells weapons to designated terrorist groups across the Middle East.”

Mrs. Goalla scoffed, tapping her paperwork and switching to another pile. “And what do you care, _Miss Khan?_ ”

Anthea hung her arm over the back of her chair, swishing the sherry in her glass. “Now I’m not sure if I like what  _ you’re _ implying, Mrs. Goalla.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she said. “The sides are all the same at the end of the day.”

Anthea sat down her glass. “You abuse your son.”

“I never laid a finger on Pratheesh,” Mrs. Goalla said. 

She didn’t even look up.

“I was talking about your other son.”

“He’s hardly worth the effort.”

Anthea was fast losing her patience. “Verbal abuse counts too. The way you speak to that boy is unacceptable, and don’t ask why I care. I do.”

Mrs. Goalla puffed like she was the exasperated one. “What do you want? Is it money? Or just to annoy me? Name your price so I can get you out of here, and do let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

Anthea rubbed the butt of her cigarette into the carpet. Perhaps she’d spent too much time around Holmeses. She could be petty.

“I don’t want money,” said Anthea. “What I want from you is something that I hope you’ll find infinitely more valuable.”

“What?”

Any mother could have connected the dots, but this one couldn’t. 

“Your son, Stephen. I want you to give over full custody to his father, or at the very least, grant joint custody and allow the boy to stay at school in Conan. He would be safer there than anywhere now, I assure you.”

“It wasn’t safe for my eldest! Pratheesh should have been my heir. He was cut out for it. I groomed him from birth, but that changeling Stephen, he’s weak. He’s sensitive. He doesn’t have the instincts to take over a company of this size.”

Anthea raised her brow. “You mean he has morals? Oh my, whatever shall the defense industry do with a person like him at the helm?”

Mrs. Goalla stood at the window with her hands behind her back. “I’ll have to start from scratch, but I can train him.”

“Why? He’d be miserable with you. Does he even want to take over?”

“You sound just like his father.” Mrs. Goalla poured Anthea another glass of sherry and set it down hard on the desk. “An alcoholic.”

“A twelve years sober alcoholic. He’s built a life for himself. Give him another chance with his son.”

“I gave him a chance!” she screamed. “And where is my boy now? Lying ready to be buried somewhere in the next county!”

Anthea studied her. Perhaps she should have felt sympathy for a grieving mother, but she couldn’t find anything human in the woman standing before her.

“Do you even think of Stephen? Is he nothing more than a vessel to you? An extension of your own life so you can keep on peddling weapons after you’re gone?”

“He’s a poor vessel,” said Mrs. Goalla, taking a sip from Anthea’s glass. “But he’s the only vessel I have now, isn’t he?”

Mycroft would never have given this woman so much leash. He would have kept on threatening and smiling and fiddling with his umbrella until the woman was in tears, but Anthea wasn’t as practiced. She’d let this headstrong beast take too many liberties. 

Anthea stood and looked her in the eye. Mycroft Holmes always saw people in terms of pressure points, and this woman’s weakness wasn’t her pride, her family, or her reputation. 

It was her greed. 

“You’re not too old to have another child, Mrs. Goalla.”

Anthea couldn't’ believe her own lips, but for Sherlock? To get Stephen out of an abusive situation like she had been in?

“How much do you want for him?”

Mrs. Goalla looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“How. Much. Do you want. For Stephen.”

Mrs. Goalla warmed herself by the fireplace for a moment. Then she sat on one end of the Chelsea couch and patted the space beside her. 

“Keep talking.”

_______________________________________________________________________

It was Thursday, the day of the funeral. Stephen would attend with his father before meeting his mother’s driver for the trip back to Dorset. He’d never dreaded anything so much in his life. He’d also never realized how much he’d miss his father. It was different with his dad. At home, if he’d talked to his mother like he did his father, he would have been backhanded through two walks, but his dad never hit him. Coach talked rough to everyone, but his mum? It was worse somehow, the way she’d smile and pretend to be doting in public and change the moment the door closed. Without Pratheesh, who’d defended him on occasion before he found himself on the receiving end of their mother’s wrath, who would protect him?

Stephen dragged his suitcases down the steps of Baker Hall, waiting patiently for his father’s car to pull up, but he didn’t have to wait long. His dad’s Kia zoomed around the U so hard it swiveled on the pavement when he came to a stop.

Stephen leaped back over the sideway, falling on his behind.

“Dad? Have you been  _ drinking?”  _ Stephen couldn’t believe it. Of all the days for his dad to fall off the wagon.

“Stephen, you’re not going to believe it!” 

The man jumped out of his car and drop-kicked Stephen’s suitcases back up the stairs. He then picked up his son and crushed him in a bear hug. 

Stephen thought his eyes would bulge out from the strain. He could scarcely breathe.

“Believe what, sir?”

Coach Goalla put him down. “Your mum  _ gave  _ me full custody.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that! We’re making the whole thing official this afternoon. I know it’s the shittiest fucking day of our lives, but you’re staying. You’ll never have to step foot in Dorset. You’ll—” The coach nearly teared up. “You’ll never have to leave. Not unless you want to. I’ll have to not get sacked, but one obstacle at a time.”

It was the most his dad had ever spoken without using more than one obscene phrase. It almost distracted him from what he was saying.

“Mum… just gave me up? Just like that?”

Coach swallowed, looking sympathetic. He reached out but then Stephen took leave of his senses and shouted—

“Are you fucking for _real_? That’s _amazing_! You’re not _joking_?”

“No!” 

The two hugged once more, before gathering enough of their facilities to realize that affection wasn’t the sort of thing that they did, and Stephen said, “Wait.”

He calculated in his head. No matter what his mother said about him, Stephen Goalla wasn’t stupid.

“Dad, I’ve gotta go! Just… wait for me here!”

He took off running in the other direction.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? We’re gonna be late! You haven't even taken your luggage back up!”

“Do it for me!”

Stephen caught his black suit on brambles as he bounded over hedges and sprinted across campus. He made his way for the pitch where the lads always spent lunch on Thursdays. It was there he found them, the girls playing sevens with the boys, and Sherlock and Greg debating ballet as a practical application in sports training.

“If professional footballers have to practice ballroom dancing, I don’t see why rugby plays shouldn’t take advantage of the stamina and endurance training required of—”

Sherlock froze when he saw him and stood up. Everyone else did too, calling an end to the game and gathering round. John balanced the ball on his hip, glancing between Sherlock and Stephen. He saw Molly coming up behind him and signaled her to stay back. Whatever was going on, Stephen would be more honest if he thought that Molly wasn’t around. 

Stephen panted. “It was you, wasn’t it? You called off my mum?”

Sherlock didn’t answer for a long time. 

“I… At the time, I merely wanted joint custody for you so you could choose for yourself. If you still think that Dorset is best for everyone,” his eyes darted to Molly briefly, but Stephen didn't catch it. “If you think that it is safer for Molly and the lads if you go, I respect that and will do everything I can to see to it that my meddling is set right.”

Stephen’s jaw dropped. He shook his head and looked like he was going to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I treated you like Pratheesh was your fault, but you didn’t do anything but save my life. You solved how my brother was killed in a moment with no evidence to go off. If you say you can find Pratheesh’s killer and protect me and Molly, then I believe you, Sherlock Holmes. _I_ _trust you.”_ He looked to the lads. “All of you. I was a fool to ever doubt any of you.”

“You bet your ass you were!” 

He whirled around to Molly, who punched him in the arm. 

“Did you really think ignoring me was the best course of action?”

He looked alarmed, but then she gathered him in a hug. All of the affection he’d suddenly started receiving was so bewildering he almost didn’t know what to do.

“Don’t worry about it, Stephen,” said Sherlock. “Families are complicated.”

“But not us, right?” he said, finally wising up enough to hug Molly back while speaking to the lads. “We’re family, aren’t we?”

Greg and John punched him in the arm too. 

“Of course, you ninny. We’re brothers.” 

“I can’t think of who else would claim your ugly mug but us.”

Mike picked up all four of them, Stephen, Molly, John, and Greg, and crushed them in his arms. 

Ryan smirked. “I’d say Molly’s the mum of the group, but then that would just get weird.”

Tyler pushed him onto the grass. 

Eliza sauntered up to him. “Today is a hard day for you. If you need, we shall go. You do not have to lay Pratheesh to rest by yourself. We will hold you up.”

Eddy, Brett, and Hilary nodded. 

“We didn’t want you to be alone today, mate, but we wanted to respect your space too. Say the word. It’s your call,” said Brett.

Stephen turned to Sherlock one last time. 

“Do you have a plan?” he asked.

Sherlock smirked. “Obviously, but it’s going to require you to wear that suit one last time. Are you up for it?”

Stephen faltered. 

“That son of a bitch already took one of my brothers, he’s not gonna take another one. If we do this, we’re all in it together.”

Stephen stuck out his hand. “Notorious Nine?”

“More like the Notorious Thirteen,” said Betty, sticking her and Mike’s hands in the ring. “You’ve got sisters now too.”

“And a girlfriend,” said Molly.

“And whatever Sherlock is,” said Ryan. 

Everyone gathered in the circle on the pitch.”

“Alright,” said Stephen. “Let’s do it.”


	33. Frequency Phantom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of all, a BIG thank you to my Ao3 BFF, springonions_withranch, for being a beta for this chapter. #life blood 
> 
> Second of all, this one gave me fits, but I am *pleased* with it now (until tomorrow, of course, when I hate it. But this is the way).
> 
> Without further ado, here's Chapter 33, Frequency Phantom.

Mycroft Holmes waltzed up to his record player, an early Christmas present from Anthea, and dropped the needle on the black, spinning vinyl. During their last dinner together, he’d mentioned it to John, who’d mailed over an impressive collection of classical, disco (which Greg adored), and what John called “the house wine of Rock and Roll.” 

Mycroft didn’t normally abide bands like ZZ Top, but for this one dire occasion, he made an exception.

PHASE ONE: Virility is the product of exercise. 

To the shred of Billy Gibbons’ guitar, he pulled up his spandex trousers and jumped on the treadmill, setting it on an uphill climb. He made it about two choruses in before he felt like his heart was going to fly out of his chest. 

Well, he couldn’t stand much of  _ that  _ for very long. 

He’d meant to go fifteen minutes, but ten would have to do. He hopped off, blotting his sweat-laden face with a towel. 

PHASE TWO: Personal grooming is the measure of an individual. 

He stepped into his steaming shower, scrubbing at the skin between his toes, at his cuticles, and behind his ears. He used the special shampoo that deepened the shade of his red hair. Gregory  _ liked _ his hair. He was always staring at it with that dopey grin tugging at the side of his mouth.

_ His lovely, biteable mouth. _

Mycroft slapped himself on the cheek.

_ Pull yourself together, Holmes. _

Mycroft stepped out of the shower and walked into a mist of his best cologne. He pulled on new underwear, used mouthwash, shined his shoes, the whole nine yards until at last he reached out the door to take the suit hanging from the dip in Anthea’s outstretched finger. She was the best assistant Mycroft had ever had, but he could never break her of her one annoying habit.

Looking smug.

“Well then,” said Anthea, “let’s see it, sir.”

PHASE THREE: Gregory Lestrade is crazy ‘bout a sharp-dressed man. 

It must’ve been the French in him.

Mycroft stepped out of the bathroom, steam cascading at his back as he adjusted the cufflinks of his midnight blue tuxedo. 

“How do I look, Anthea?” he asked. “Will I do?”

She straightened his tie and poked a carnation in his lapel. 

“You look like a million pounds, sir. Very dapper.” 

She went after him with a lint roller. 

“Did you—”

“I have your umbrella dry cleaned at the front. I also took the liberty of polishing your sword. The blade is a bit dull and could do for a sharpening, however, your special whetstone is on backorder, but in the meantime I cleaned and reloaded your revolver. Now for the last time, sir, revolvers do  _ not _ have safeties, so please don’t fiddle with it. It’s your nervous habit.”

“I do not have  _ nervous habits.” _

“The car should be coming round with your personal effects from home loaded in the boot, your hotel reservations are in order, and a security detail will meet you out front in about five point six minutes. I apologize, sir. I would have had the timing down to the letter had your exercise not been unexpectedly cut short. Shall I send for a repairman to look at the treadmill again?”

Anthea knew that there was nothing wrong with the treadmill, and furthermore, Mycroft knew that she knew that there was nothing wrong with the treadmill. 

He scoffed.

“I’d threaten to send you back to MI5, but MI6 could never get on without you.” 

He stood with his arms outstretched as she continued lint rolling his Armani suit. 

“Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll always be ‘round,” Anthea smiled, waggling her brows.

He frowned. “What are you doing? Stop doing that with your face.”

“Oh, Chief,” Anthea rolled her eyes. No ordinary agent could get by with that kind of sass. “I’m just so happy for you, seeing reason at long last.”

“I am  _ always  _ reasonable _ ,” _ dripped Mycroft.

Anthea was undeterred. “The dance starts at eight PM, but if I may advise, the key to a dramatic entrance is showing up fashionably late. I suggest that you wait at least an hour. Perhaps stop at the Thai restaurant in Reading that you like so much. In fact, I’ve already arranged for your contact to meet you there. Now then, will there be anything else? If you start down the stairs now, the car will pull up exactly on time.”

Damn her, she knew how he liked to be punctual. 

“That will be all. Why don’t you… take the rest of the evening for yourself? You look tired.”

“Thank you, sir. I will.”

Mycroft rode in the back of a limousine reading the classified government documents that Anthea had arranged for him. He placed the umbrella aside. True, it was really a gun inside of a sword inside of an umbrella which made him feel more secure on outings, and true he had, on occasion, accidently pulled the trigger blowing the whole thing to smithereens, but he did  _ not _ have nervous habits. 

Bloody ex-sniper and her bloody lectures on firearm safety.

The landscape slowly changed from urban London to the sweeping castles and villages of rural Berkshire. He’d been all over the world, but no place was as beautiful as England, even in the near winter against a grey sky. He recalled when he was young how it had snowed in Northumberland. He didn’t remember being a child, but he must’ve been, because the snow hit him at the waist. It practically buried Sherlock, who couldn’t have been more than two. Everything had been so perfect before Eurus started walking.

She had never seemed like a child, but like a malevolent spirit trapped inside of a small, weak body. She became more dangerous as she grew older. At first it’d comforted him how Eurus had calmed around Sherlock, but he should have seen the signs of her obsession. He should have seen that a psychopath like Eurus didn’t know how to love. 

If he didn’t stop her, she’d cage Sherlock like an animal.

He’d yet to discover the mole in MI6, but one thing was for certain: they were either members of a sleeper cell or some young, impressionable agent manipulated into doing Eurus’s bidding. She could befriend anyone.

Just long enough to sink a knife in their back.

Fear ate away at him every night, and beneath that, something burning and all consuming. He missed Greg, longed for him. Mycroft dreamed of their one night together as though it had happened a hundred times, feeling the slopes of Greg’s lithe, powerful body under his own, but it wasn’t just sexual between them. He missed the nights patching in through his computer when they would watch cooking shows together and laugh at the chefs’ disasters. He missed helping Greg study for his Russian exams until the session deteriorated into a trilingual shouting match. He missed watching as Greg told stories he wasn’t listening to because he was too busy watching his animated face. He missed when they would run in the woods and Greg would give him a hard time about being winded. 

Was this what Sherlock felt like when he was with John? Human?

Those moments felt like the only ones in his life that weren’t engulfed in darkness. Would Greg really be a dead man walking if he were with Mycroft? Mycroft was the most powerful man in the world, but what good was it if he couldn’t protect Greg? If he only saw him in person and off the record, surely that would be enough, but was it worth the risk?

It wasn’t just Sherlock’s loss that would break his heart anymore.

The car pulled into the restaurant,  _ Room Pho One More, _ upon their arrival in Reading. The whole establishment was vacated the way he liked with no one but the contact sitting in the corner booth away from all windows. 

Mycroft sat down and she stood, saluting his presence. 

“Agent Vynnyk.”

“Sir,” she nodded. 

Mycroft motioned for her to sit. “Will you have time to change into the proper attire on your way back into Wiltshire?”

“Of course, sir.”

He grunted looking over a menu. “And how do you like it? Being Mary Morstan?”

Mary nodded once. “I love it. Being Mary Morstan is the only life worth living.”

Mycroft looked up. “And why is that?”

The girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I… get to feel like a normal kid, sir.”

“Well, don’t get used to it. As soon as it’s mission accomplished, we’re expediting you back to Ukraine. We need an agent of your skillset keeping an eye on the situation there. You’ll get to live many lives over the course of your time with us.”

Mary looked like she wasn’t breathing. “T-thank you, sir. It’s an honor.” Her throat bobbed. “... Ukraine is home.”

“Not anymore, it isn’t,” said Mycroft, snapping his fingers for the waiter. “Have you infiltrated the Nine?”

“They’re calling themselves the Thirteen now, sir, and no,” said Mary. “It’s Sherlock. I’m certain that I could break through to the others if it weren’t for him. He can be… jealous.”

She said ‘jealous’ smiling, almost as smug as Anthea had been earlier, but decidedly in a way which Mycroft didn’t like. 

“And just what would he have to be jealous of, Agent Vynnyk?”

Mary looked down at her lap. “Nothing. The earlier incident—”

“—would not have happened if you had followed orders. My brother is many things,  _ Miss Morstan, _ but he is not forgiving.”

“I’m sorry,” Mary apologized. “I thought perhaps it would be easier to protect him if he were cut off. If you would just let me split him from the pack, it would save millions in security detail—”

“I do not,” interrupted Mycroft, “remember asking for your opinions. You’re an agent, not an accountant. Unless you want to be deported to Moscow— Where I’m sure they’d love to see you— I suggest that you lift not so much as a finger without asking me first. If you hadn’t attempted to attach yourself to John Watson then Sherlock wouldn’t hate you so. I don’t care which member you pick to seduce, but stay away from Watson. You have until the end of the week to do so or I will replace you with an agent who can manage the most basic part of her assignment. I need you close to Sherlock to protect him, so you better make that Notorious Thirteen a Notorious Fourteen. Do I make myself clear, Miss Vynnyk?”

“Morstan,” she mumbled. 

“What?”

Mary looked up, her mouth hanging. “I apologize, sir. I do have a target. Ryan Gellert. His estate is off the coast of Wales, as close to Sherrinford as anyone on the mainland can be. It could prove convenient.”

Mycroft studied her. 

Slouched posture, obviously uncomfortable, yet her lips drawn tightly indicating defiance. She was fifteen, just a child. 

Useful, but children rarely make the most reliable of agents. 

Still, at the end of the day, Greg was a civilian, and Sherlock knew he was spying. Mary was lethal, the last person he’d look at because he hated looking at her. Mycroft needed her to do her job.

“MI6 does not have time for teenage rebellion, Vynnyk. England didn’t save you, raise you, train you so that you could allow personal feelings to get in the way.”

Then he spoke softer.

“Agent Khan was just like you when we were younger.”

He remembered the scrappy agent with the broken, hook nose and the busted lip. She’d sworn on her grave that she’d never call an “entitled civilian prat” like Mycroft  _ sir.  _ It’d been the first of their many fistfights, but the only one they’d ever got into with  _ each other. _

“Anthea bucked up,” said Mycroft. “You will too. There are brighter days ahead and I can promise you a place in England and the RMC, but first you’ll have to earn it. Do you understand?”

A bit of Mary’s icy demeanor melted. She nodded. 

“Good,” he said. “Now tell me everything you know about Jim Moriarty.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Maybe he should have been getting ready for the ball or helping John as he transformed the murder wall into a coordinated plan of attack, but Sherlock was restless. He sawed away Bruckner and Shostakovich on his violin in the most aggressive medley he’d ever composed. He paced the room as he played, knocking over gaming consoles and teacups in his wake. Tonight was more than the night they were going to catch a murderer. 

If it were only a murderer Sherlock wouldn’t have been so bloody pent up. 

Finally, at his wit's end and unable to cope with his violinist boyfriend for a second longer, a desperate John called in the experts. 

“Eddy, Brett, Hilary,” he nodded. “The three of you are the best in your field.”

Brett and Eddy scrunched up their faces and looked at one another across the top of Hilary’s head.

“Do you mean that you could find, or… ?”

John sighed.

“Okay,  _ Hilary  _ is the best in her field. BUT,” said John, “the three of you together have something no one else on the planet has. Creativity. Humor. Tenacity. Talent. And, most importantly of all, experience distracting Sherlock Holmes.”

Brett nodded. This was true. Just last week when John had been working on Sherlock’s Christmas gift, they’d been asked to walk Sherlock and took him for a bubble tea. When that hadn’t kept him occupied, Brett had bribed a violin off of a street performer and played a sort of musical charades with Sherlock involving classical composers. It’d entertained him for an hour. Solid time by Holmes standards. 

“Alright,” said Brett. “We’ll take him off your hands, mate, but what’s in it for us?”

John chewed his lip, thinking. Sherlock was out of control, truly in a panic. For a man who’d been ready to jump his bones not a week prior armed with a box of sex paraphernalia, now that the night of “The Deed” (as Sherlock called it) was upon them, he seemed so wound up John was afraid he’d snap in two.

“I’m… willing to carry through the bet,” sighed John. 

Eddy straightened.

“What bet? What’s he talking about?” asked Hilary, but Eddy silenced her with his hand.

“No loopholes? A mini dress and everything?”

John nodded. “I’ll even throw in heels.”

Eddy stroked his chin, contemplating. “I want the bagpipes.”

“Bagpipes! That was part of  _ our _ stipulations.”

“I know your dad was half a Scotsman, Watson. A bloke of your talents can make it happen.”

John massaged the bridge of his nose. “Eddy, this might come as a shock, but bagpipery does  _ not  _ pass through the blood.”

Brett cocked a brow. “Does it not, John? Does it  _ really  _ not?”

The Aussies had him up against a wall and he knew it.

Anything for Sherlock Holmes.

“Fine!” he spat. “But don’t expect it to sound like more than a dying sheep and no more than fifteen minutes. It’s ruddy cold out there!”

“Thirty,” said Eddy. “You ought to move to Australia, mate. You’ll never survive December.”

John caught Eddy’s hand in a vice grip and they shook on it. “Remember, Chen, I want him as calm as possible.”

Eddy made the okay sign. “He’ll be as relaxed as a baby in a bassinet.”

Later, Brett cracked Sherlock’s door and stuck his head through.

“Hey, buddy. Would you like to hang out? We’ve a few good hours to burn before the ball.”

“Can’t,” yelled Sherlock over the squeal of his violin. “Busy.”

Brett looked over his shoulder to John mouthing _ “Sherlockian Rule Number Nine!” _

Brett nodded. “That’s okay, Sherlock!” he shouted. “It’s probably too complicated for you to understand anyway, with your memory being the way it is and pop culture being your Achilles heel!”

Sherlock ground to a stop.

He turned. 

“What’s too complicated for me?”

_______________________________________________________________________

Brett tore away at his violin, playing Winter from the Four Seasons by Vivaldi.

Sherlock slapped his hands together pointing finger guns.

“Winter Soldier!”

“Ding ding! Correct!” said Eddy, keeping score on the whiteboard in the common room. 

“Damn!” Hilary practically headbanged in frustration, stomping her heels while still sitting on the couch. She was, impossibly, more competitive than Sherlock Holmes, and Brett was certain that if there had been a way to cheat, she would have done it by now. They were in a dead heat. The boys knew of Holmes’s competitive streak, but they’d never before witnessed it in Hahn. Eddy and Brett knew to let Sherlock win, but Hilary didn’t have it in her.

On the upside, Sherlock looked to be having an exceptional time.

Brett, figuring he better do something to save his relationship, fudged on the next Marvel character he drew out of the bag and instead played Witches Dance by Paganini.

“SCARLET WITCH!” screamed Hilary, so loud it frightened Eddy into dropping the marker. 

“Of course, songbird!” sang Brett. “You’re so smart.”

Hilary preened, then turned to Sherlock and beat on her chest. “What, what?” she said, throwing down rock signs with her fingers in a dead challenge. “Who’s ahead? That’s right. The H2 WOAH’s ahead! Yeah!”

“For now!” growled Sherlock. “Play another one.”

Brett pulled another character out of the bag.

Oh, God.

Against his better judgment, he played the Spiderman theme. 

Sherlock and Hilary jumped up at the same time screaming bloody murder.

“She said Peter Parker, I said Spiderman. I’m more factually correct!”

“It’s the same fucking thing and you know it!”

“I didn’t hear you saying James Buchanan Barnes or Scarlett Johansen!”

“Her name is Natasha Romanov and the Scarlet Witch is played by Elizabeth Olsen!”

Brett jumped in the middle, attempting to separate the two. He got knocked around so violently it reminded him of a video on the telly where two kangaroos double teamed and beat the hell out of a poacher. 

Since when was Hilary so freakishly strong?

John peeked over the stair railing. 

That was his boy. While he wasn’t exactly calm, if John had to make good on the bet, Sherlock might as well give Brett hell. 

It was acceptable.

John flashed Eddy a thumbs up, which the boy returned with a wink.

Sherlock  _ did _ always say that peace was hateful.

_______________________________________________________________________

Mary Morstan was certain of two things:

She was not going back to Ukraine, and she’d never end up like Anthea Khan. 

Mary loved school. She loved it from the moment she’d arrived. She could even abide her roommate in the beginning, waxing poetic about Sherlock Holmes. But the night Molly had introduced her to John Watson,  _ that _ was the night that she’d made up her mind.

John Watson was the only man in the world for her, so kind and attentive, going out of his way to speak with her when he’d noticed that no one else was. He’d thrown glances over his shoulder though, too many for it to be platonic, at his best friend Sherlock Holmes. 

_ Sherlock. _ Why did everyone care so bloody much about  _ Sherlock? _

But nevermind that. She’d been certain Molly would keep him entertained while she worked her magic on John. She’d used every trick in the book on him. Mirroring his body language, touching him, licking ice cream in front of him seductively. She’d even, on more than one occasion, invited him back to her dorm as they’d played darts together, but he’d been oblivious. 

Of course she recognized the signs. He fancied Sherlock. Another in a long line of people someone chose over her, but no matter. She could have him. She  _ could. _

When she’d seen him making his way across campus carrying flowers, jealousy had possessed her body and she’d slammed into him with her bike. He’d cut himself, and oh how she’d hated to see him bleed, but when she’d reached for him, he’d flinched. Jerked back like she was disgusting.

His voice had dripped like he was angry. “Stop apologizing, it’s  _ fine.” _

_ Don’t let him see it hurts you. You can still convince him to run away with you. Can’t he see we’re destined to be together? Always? Why can’t he see? What’s in the way? _

“No, it isn’t,” she’d said, and then she’d gathered up the flowers from the broken glass.

Who were they for? Who did she need to make disappear?

They’d chatted for a while before she’d finally asked. 

“Lovely flowers. Who’s the lucky lady?”

John had answered her back, no hesitation at all. “Guy, actually.”

He’d looked just as dazed as she’d felt. 

She’d taken him up the stairs. She’d shag him, she’d beg him, she’d make him see reason. She knew he wasn’t gay. He couldn’t be! She’d make him want her, but when she’d opened up the door, not only had Molly been home, but Sherlock Holmes had been standing in the middle of the bedroom. 

They must’ve had a row, judging by their body language, and hope had bloomed in her chest. But that’d wilted the moment John went racing after him. She’d heard him screaming, “It isn’t what it looks like!”

She’d looked down at the blood on her hand.

John’s blood.

_ No,  _ she’d thought,  _ but it could be.  _

Mary knew she was in too deep to turn back now. Mycroft had asked her, “Tell me everything you know about Jim Moriarty,” and it’d taken every ounce of her self-control not to shoot back, “More than you.”

Jim had connections. Jim had power, and beyond that, a boss who could give her everything that she wanted. All Eurus asked of Mary was a simple trade. 

Sherlock Holmes for John Watson, and Mary would deliver.

_______________________________________________________________________

“Groot!” cried Sherlock.

Eddy shook his head and switched from Morning Mood by Grieg to Storm by Vivaldi. He screeched on his violin at random intervals, making strange faces and gritting his teeth.

“Loki??” asked Hilary.

Brett, who’d been accused of being biased, had been banished to scorekeeping duty, a position that he was proud to hold. 

He popped his second Tylenol. “Come on, guys. He’s making it easy for you!”

“SHUT UP!” Hilary and Sherlock shouted in unison. 

Eddy played Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries.

“Valkyrie!” said Hilary.

Eddy scowled. The dumbasses. He’d had quite enough.

He sawed a single, deafening A on his violin until Sherlock stood up with a look of rapture and declared, “THOR! It’s Thor Odinson!”

“Yes!” cheered Eddy, and the two boys danced around the coffee table while Hilary fell screaming on the couch. 

Thor was the deathblow in her bitter struggle against Sherlock Holmes in Marvel charades and, Brett feared, the deathblow in the rest of his night. 

“How the hell did you get ‘Thor’ out of that performance?”

“From Valkyrie to Thor, the hop’s not that big,” shrugged Sherlock.

She socked him with a throw pillow. 

“Well, as wonderful as this had been,” said Sherlock, and he really meant it, “I’ve got to get dressed for the ball.” He nodded to the three, “Evening,” and skipped off up the stairs. 

By now John had everything in order surely, but the man was meticulous about what he referred to as “military campaigns” and insisted on working down to the wire. Sherlock found him in a circle of looseleaf paper, muttering to himself incoherently. 

Was that what  _ he _ looked like when he worked on a case? No wonder Mycroft had him drug tested so regularly, even when he was clean.

“Almost finished, C12H22O11?”

John grunted, waving him off absentmindedly. 

Sherlock smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Remember your camouflage.” He sniffed John’s hair, cringing. “And to take a shower! Lord, John, I know that couples tend to mimic one another’s characteristics, but this is taking it too far.”

If John heard him, he didn’t make a sign, so Sherlock simply grabbed his tux and toiletries and made for the loo. 

He shaved while showering, frequently wiping the steam from the small mirror that he’d found to stick on the side of the shower. He took longer than usual washing his hair and shampooed in places he normally didn’t, but tonight could leave no room for error.

Sherlock dried his body, splashed on some aftershave, and stood in front of the large mirror and sink off the side of the hallway with a towel wrapped around his waist. He hadn’t noticed before, but now that the bruising had faded he could really appreciate the weight he’d gained. 

The padding over his once jutting ribs highlighted his abs. He’d always been an athlete, an artist, and his body showed that. His arms looked thicker too, showcasing the rounding of his deltoid muscles, his biceps, and pectorals. 

Lifting ballerinas took endurance. Beating up bad guys took strength. Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he wasn’t a weakling. John sometimes treated him like he was made of glass. Tonight he would prove to him that he wasn’t.

The towel slipped a little as he brushed his teeth, and he noticed that his ass was filling out too.  _ A lot. _ He’d starved himself in ballet school because of it, but John seemed to have a thing for butts, always slapping or grabbing his in the morning and cracking jokes about it being “England’s ass” while he sang God Save the Queen, so he didn’t feel self-conscious. He felt  _ good.  _ Healthier now than he had in a long time, injuries notwithstanding. 

While the shower was private, the sink wasn’t, so he peeked up and down the hall to make sure the coast was clear before he took up a curling brush and a hairdryer. It was important he looked his best tonight, and Sherlock was determined to render John Hamish Watson absolutely speechless.

After all, John wasn’t the only one who knew how to use YouTube. 

And he didn’t mean just for his hair.

_______________________________________________________________________

The lads huddled in John and Sherlock’s room. They were all dressed to the nines, but none so much as John, who’d decided to say  _ screw it _ to his limited funds and live out his James Bond dream in the nicest tux he could afford. He’d never eat outside of the caf again, and he’d have to take Sherlock on many a cheap date, but no matter. 

Tonight was special. If they could just manage to capture the murderer quick as hell, then everything would fall into place. 

“Where’s Sherlock?” he barked. 

No one knew, but he didn’t have time to wait. 

“Okay then,” John marched to the front of the room, his back erect and his feet planted wide apart. “This,” he pointed to the murder wall turned war wall, “is a map of all the dormitories on campus. Sherlock and I have already searched two of them: Kipling and Baker. That leaves the girls dorms and Barrie. Dorian,” he pointed at Greg’s date. “You’re the only man we’ve got living in Barrie, so Greg and Mike will accompany you on the Alpha team. Did we all review the video on lockpicking I sent you?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” piped Tyler. 

“Good.” John kicked forward a box full of practice locks and kits. “Get busy.”

While the crew reviewed the video and cursed over picking locks, John distributed the walkie-talkies they’d used during Operation: Gemini. He’d been up all night switching them on the single charger and was in a right foul mood. 

“Listen up! Bravo team, you’re with Eliza and Hilary.” He nodded toward Chen and Yang. “They live in Wollstonecraft, arguably the most dangerous building as it has Professor Chamberlain watching it. You won’t be able to fall back on contingency plan A with her. One of you will have to distract her.”

Ryan raised his hand. “What’s contingency plan A?”

“It’s a well-known fact that—” John began, but he didn’t get to finish, because during the middle of his thought, Sherlock Holmes walked through the door and he looked  _ decadent.  _

Holy mother of the divine.

John thought he felt something wet, possibly drool, trailing down the corner of his mouth, but that was on the back burner. What was on the  _ front _ burner was how handsome Sherlock looked. No, not handsome.  _ Captivating. _

He was a tailor’s vision. There couldn’t have been a man better suited to showcase a finely cut Italian tux. He wore traditional black, but where the rest of the suit was matte, the lapel and cumberbund were glossy. The cumberbund fit snuggly around his waist and accentuated the defined V shape of his torso. He wore a matte bowtie just like John, but his button-down and pocket square were a rich, emerald green. 

John’s favorite color, he realized. 

His curls were slicked out of his face and John could see his ears now.

He’d gotten his hair cut? When had he gotten his hair cut? John had just asked him if he’d wanted to go to the barber with him last week when he’d gone to get his military cut refreshed, and he’d said no. Had he done it himself? It somehow made his hair more voluptuous and showcased his irises, still as blue and varied in color as the sea after a storm. 

He stared out under dramatic brows, his shapely lips moving. John supposed he was saying something, but he wasn’t listening. He was too preoccupied with the way his skin tugged over his cheekbones. 

A man could cut himself on those cheekbones. 

“John? Mate, you still with us?” Greg slapped him in the back of the head.

That brought him around. 

He became keenly aware of the group laughing and wiped at this cheek. Damn, he  _ had _ been drooling. 

Nice going, Watson. 

“As John was trying to say,” cleared Sherlock, silencing the pack, “It is a well-known fact that public displays of affection make other people uncomfortable, as you’ve all voiced about John and myself on numerous occasions.”

John’s cheeks flamed. 

“That being said, contingency plan A is to grab your partner and snog viciously.”

“Snog?” said Tyler. “Wait, Ryan and I are partners.”

The two looked at each other, turning red and slowly scooting as far apart as possible.

“Betty will be with you in Montagu,” said Sherlock. “But I don’t recommend snogging her for obvious reasons. Hello, Mike, obvious reason,” he waved. 

“Anyway, Professor Chamberlain is a prude, so that won’t work on her. Students will be sneaking back for a roll in the hay…”

John felt his blood pressure spike. Was he having a heart attack?

“... and while most teachers won’t want to deal with it and will turn a blind eye, you can’t depend on that with her. However, you can manipulate her into a sort of watchdog if one of you talks to her in front of the building. We can’t have students waltzing in tearing off one another’s clothes while we’re searching their rooms, can we?”

Stephen eyed John. “Hey, do you need to sit down? You don’t look so good.”

John settled on his own bunk, pawing for the headboard to steady himself with as if he didn’t have his wits about him. He swiped at the air several times before he found it.

“We all know our assignments,” said Sherlock, “and we all know what we’re looking for: cameras or collections of cameras. Also be on the lookout for a photograph of a blonde girl with a side-shaved hairstyle. It’s too specific to be a coincidence. I know Agatha’s attack is connected to Pratheesh’s murder somehow, and right now it’s all that we have to go on. Don’t get your hopes up.” He looked at Stephen. “But don’t lose faith.”

Stephen nodded, steeling his shoulders. 

“Alright,” said Sherlock. “Let’s go catch ourselves a murderer.” 

_______________________________________________________________________

Molly and Stephen with John and Sherlock did a clean sweep of Aiken House. They searched every room with the exception of Molly’s, which didn’t need searching, and commed the other teams. 

“Alpha, Bravo, Delta, this is Charlie. Do you copy? Over.”

The static fizzed. 

John beat his palm against the speaker and commed again. “Alpha, Bravo, Delta, this is Charlie. Do you copy? Over.”

Again, nothing but feedback. “Damn rat bastard,” John cursed. “It’s like the signals jammed.”

“At the risk of sounding like an idiot who wants to leave a digital paper trail,” said Sherlock. “We could just text them.”

“Fine,” drolled John. “But I want it on the record that I thought it was a bad idea.”

“Duly noted.” 

Stuff and nonsense. John was just mad about how long it took to charge all of the walkie-talkies last night. They wouldn’t get  _ caught, _ not with the anal amount of detail he’d put into the planning. So far the only hiccup was how bad everyone was at lock picking. It easily doubled their allotted time frame.

“You two go on to the ball,” Sherlock told Molly. “It may serve us well to have Stephen play as live bait.”

“Bait!” said Molly. “And what am I supposed to do if someone takes it? Pepper spray an attacker?”

“That would certainly slow me down,” said John.

Molly frowned. 

“It’s okay, Hoops,” said Stephen. “This guy is a coward. He only attacks when people are alone, but if anyone jumps us on the way to the ball, run. Don’t stay and fight.”

Molly opened her mouth to argue, but Stephen insisted. 

“Promise me, Molly. I can’t fight a war if I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t  _ have  _ to worry about me,” Molly scowled. “I could break you over my knee and barely break a sweat.”

At that point, they must’ve made a breakthrough in telepathic communication, because they glared at one another without a single word.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, right then. Off you go.”

He pushed them into the elevator. “Here’s the com in case it starts working again. At the very least, you can throw it at somebody.” 

The elevator doors closed and they sighed. 

“Well,” said John. “I guess that the two of us might as well pop over to Barrie and make sure that the boys don’t need help. The suspect  _ is _ most likely a chap. You said so yourself.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. I know you’re right, it’s just that I really want to get this out of the way. I don’t know if I can face Stephen if we don’t find a lead somewh—”

John reached over and squeezed his hand. 

“It’s gonna be okay. You’ll find a lead and bust this case like you always do. And,” he caressed his face, “tonight is going to be perfect. One way or the other.”

John examined him. “You look stunning, by the way.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, leaning in. “I developed a specific formula for just that. The drooling was an interesting side effect.” 

“Oh, stop it,” John playfully nudged his shoulder as they stepped into the elevator. “You don’t have a  _ formula. _ ”

When the doors closed he shoved Sherlock into the wall. “You just have an ass.”

He pulled him down by his lapel, breathing him in as he kissed him heatedly and reached around to squeeze an ass cheek.

Sherlock felt his heart skipping in his chest as his body quaked like falling from a high. The added inertia of the elevator made him feel like he was floating at the same time, and his eyes fluttered shut with the kiss, but just as he was about to give in to oblivion, he caught sight of a flyer hanging across from them in the elevator. 

It was a picture of two artists standing in front of a display case, and in it, just barely visible behind a turn of the century camera, was the matchbox sitting on its own plaque. 

Good God! They’d been looking in the wrong place!

“John!”

_ “Mmph Sherlock,” _ John groaned against his teeth.

“John,” Sherlock grabbed his face and twisted him around. “Look at that! What do you see?”

John blinked and then his expression fell flat with a huff. 

He’d come to expect it, he supposed. 

“I take it that you’re interrupting our moment to tell me that  _ that _ picture on  _ that  _ flyer for the art club somehow holds the key to the  _ whole mystery _ and that the second those elevator doors open, you’re going to hoof it across campus where the two of us are… going… to… Sherlock?”

And he was off, out the doors like a racehorse breaking the gate at the Guineas Stakes. If John hadn’t been so accustomed to chasing after him he would have lost him entirely. 

“This tux is a rental, Sherlock!”

“You didn’t care about mussing it up two minutes ago!”

The boys rounded Aiken House and ran straight for Kipling. 

“I don’t understand!” said John as they elbowed past a group of boys through the front door of Kipling Hall. “I thought we were headed to the art department. We’ve already searched Kipling.”

“I’m showing you something!” said Sherlock, and he threw a chair into the basement door, busting it. 

“Hey! We could have picked that!”

“Maybe,” said Sherlock, “but I suspect we don’t have time.”

The boys skipped down the stairs of the dank basement, Sherlock whipping out his phone to use for a torch. 

“I checked for students in the photography club and I only asked if anything had been stolen from the history department. I’m such an  _ idiot! _ The photography club focuses on digital cameras, which we know our stalker used, but he also used microfilm. He’d need a darkroom and need a working knowledge of actual film. The only place in the school that still focuses on such archaic technology is the art department, don’t you see? Even I had to have Mycroft take care of the film for me. It’s next to impossible to see when it’s still tiny.”

“And we’re in the Kipling basement because?” said John, swatting away at cobwebs.

He definitely wasn’t getting back the deposit on his tux. 

“The campus used to be one big hall, but it was bombed during the war and had to be rebuilt. Kipling sits over one end of the old basement and the other comes out under the art department  _ where they keep the darkroom _ . Agatha’s attacker meant to dump his disguise in Kipling. He saw me. He knew I’d have the trash searched, but in his haste, he dumped the matchbox camera. It’s small. It’d be easy to do. He must’ve developed a roll before when researching Agatha. Imagine how panicked he’d be when he realized he’d dumped the film!”

Sherlock kicked aside a pile of crates and ushered John down the narrow, sealed off side of the basement. 

John stumbled behind him. God, how was Sherlock so fast? He must’ve had a cheetah’s metabolism. No wonder it was so hard to keep fat on him.

“I didn’t know about this. How do  _ you _ know about this?”

“Breckenridge covers it in orientation!” called Sherlock. “Didn’t you take the tour when you were a new boy?”

“That was boring as shit! I ran away! You mean you,  _ Mr. I-Hate-History-Everything-Is-Boring Holmes, _ actually sat through it?”

“I had to!” said Sherlock. “Mycroft was with me.”

The walls seemed to become narrower and narrower the farther they went until Sherlock slammed into a door, and John slammed into him. 

“It’s locked? Blast, it’s never locked!”

He backed John up and began his assault.

“You mean you’ve been down here before?” asked John. 

Of course he had. How else would he know how to find the entrance? Why else would he pay attention to Breckenridge at all unless to use something he said to his advantage later?

“I may have,” Sherlock kicked at the door, “when I first started attending Conan,” the aging wood splintered, “engaged is some minor criminal activity,” John heard the door crack, “to fuel my drug habit!”

Sherlock finally busted the door enough to squeak into the darkroom. 

“God, I must’ve robbed this place blind a hundred times, but I was too high to remember it.”

John peeked round behind him. 

“You don’t do that shit anymore, right?”

“Obviously!” Sherlock rolled his eyes, flicking on the lights to the darkroom. “After I started selling my ill-gotten gains to Jabez at The Field Bazaar, I realized that if I were turning a profit at a pawnbroker's that other criminals probably were too. That’s how I got my start. After I built up my reputation, I took trivial cases on campus and had other students buy for me in exchange for my services. You worry about paper trails, but you can only imagine how nervous my dealers got working with me when Mycroft came sniffing around. I still don’t know where some of them are.”

Sherlock looked through the racks and the cubbies, fumbling for pictures, damning evidence, anything. 

“Why was it so important we ran back here like Satan was after us? It’s been a month since Agatha. He’s torched all the pictures.” 

A rustling came from upstairs. 

“What was that?” asked John. 

Sherlock took him by the neck and pressed his palm over his mouth. 

“Because we can’t be the only ones taking advantage of the Fall Ball.”

He held a finger to his lips and motioned for John to follow him up the stairs. Sherlock cracked the door and peeked to the outside. They saw a hooded figure in black rummaging through the room stuffing sculptures, projectors, and pottery carefully wrapped in cloth into a sack. The perp turned their attention back to the display case. He picked the lock expertly and seemed to only take the small items that wouldn’t be easily noticed. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He stepped out from behind the door. 

“Are you serious? It’s you?”

The perp’s eyes grew wide, then he knocked the chairs stacked on the table in the aisle and made a break for it with his sack. 

“Come on, John! He’s getting away!”

Sherlock and John hurtled over the fallen chairs and followed the perp into the yard. It sounded like one of his bowls shattered in the sack, and in the next moment he was limping, as one of the shards had stabbed through and nicked him in the calf. 

John powered ahead of Sherlock and tackled the perp to the ground. Maybe he should have been gentler with the students’ art projects, but he felt capturing the person stealing them, who was also quite possibly a murderer, was more important. 

Sherlock stood over the struggling pair. 

“Hello, Frank,” he said and ripped off the perp’s ski mask. “Still at it, I see.”

John secured the bloke in a rear-naked choke, crushed at his windpipe. 

“Babe,” John grunted, “do you know this guy?”

“Oh, Frank and I go way back, don’t we Frank?” Sherlock leaned over and patted the boy on the cheek with a sadistic smile on his face. He could be downright scary when he wanted to be. “He’s no murderer, but he was clever enough to always give ol’ Mycroft the slip.”

“Wait,” panted John. “You mean this bastard is one of your drug dealers?”

“The one and only.”

John nodded. “Ah, well in that case…” 

He let go of Frank, but only so he could switch to the front and strangle him with his bare hands. Sherlock just barely pulled him off. 

“What’s the matter, Frankie?” asked Sherlock, ignoring the irate man stewing to his left. “Now that I’ve gone clean is business really that slow? You’re not hooking them like you used to.”

“You can’t snitch on me, Holmes! If you do, I’ll rat you to the coppers.”

“Because the police and I aren’t already on a first-name basis. You haven’t a leg to stand on, Frank, but I’m not here about your crimes. I’m investigating a murder and an attempted murder.”

Frank gulped and rubbed at his red neck. “I don’t know nothing about no murder! I was only casing the place. This posh school can afford to miss some of their fancy bobbles. You’re not the only one who’s got habits to feed.”

“He doesn’t have habits anymore!” snapped John.

Frank sneered. “Is that what you think, little man?”

John puffed out his chest and swaggered like he was going to beat the shit out of Frank, but Sherlock staved him off.

“Hold on, hold on!” Sherlock studied the photos pouring from the sack. “Where did you get those?”

John followed his gaze and picked up the photographs. He thumbed through them one by one. They weren’t landscapes or portraits or still lifes.

They were pictures of the rugby team, of Coach, of the girls, and many of them were of the team in compromising positions. Frank held up one particularly saucy one of John and Sherlock under the bleachers. 

“I was hoping to get a good pence out of you for this one,” he smiled. 

John snatched it away from him and punched him in the jaw. 

“What the hell are these? There’s even one of Greg and Mycroft in the orchard. They aren’t doing anything… but this is bad. What does it mean?”

The photo showed a bleeding Mycroft standing looking downtrodden,  _ weak, _ with Greg Lestrade holding a comforting hand on his shoulder. Anyone who saw it would know they were more than friends. This wasn’t a blackmail picture. 

_ It was a national security leak. _

And the photos weren’t only of the Nine and their associates, but of Ben Farnnon arguing with Pratheesh Goalla, of the women he’d had his affairs with scowling at him from afar. There was even one of Coach getting hot and heavy in a car with… Professor Chamberlain?

But even more disturbing than the stalker's apparent interest in all things rugby was his interest in John. It didn’t matter if he was in the stands with Molly or snogging Sherlock. In fact, the vast majority of the photos were of John alone, especially on those evenings he would walk the track around the pitch talking to Harry. The last picture wasn’t of anyone, but of a rugby ball, carved out with one word:

RACHE

Beneath the ball sat three pictures. One of Stephen, one of Pratheesh, and one of John.

Pratheesh’s photo was stabbed through with a stiletto knife. 

Just like the one that would have killed Agatha had the boys not been fast enough to save her. This wasn’t blackmail. 

This was a fucking hit list, and the killer wanted them to know he was always near. 

Sherlock took a sharp breath. He lifted Frank by the throat. “You’re going back in that building, and you are going to show me  _ exactly  _ where you found every single last one of these.”

“Sherlock,” said John. He took the photo from Sherlock’s fist and flipped it over. The killer had written on the back. 

_ DID YOU MISS ME? _

_______________________________________________________________________

Sherlock and John raced back to the ball. They called off everyone and texted them to meet at the backmost table. John wouldn’t quit looking over his shoulder and flinching towards Sherlock like he was shielding him. The tremors had returned to his hands. 

“Stephen was right. If they're after us, then they’re after the people we love too.”

“Stop it. We don’t know that.” Sherlock stilled his palms. “Pratheesh had three girlfriends and all of them are still alive. No one’s killing anyone. Remember what I promised you.  _ Nothing _ will ever happen to you.”

John released a shaky breath. “But what about you?”

The rest of the Thirteen and Dorian came in. They found them at the back of the ballroom with the pictures spread out on the table. Hilary covered her gaping mouth with her palms and buried her face in Brett’s shoulder. 

Eliza only quirked a brow at a picture of her and Eddy. “Good angle,” she said, but Dorian gave Eddy a look like he was trying to decide if all of the boy hacked up would fit into a cooler. 

“Who the hell took all of these?” asked Molly.

“It gets worse.”

John showed the picture of the rugby ball and the lined photographs. 

“Rache?” said Greg. “What is that?”

“Could be German for revenge,” said Ryan.

“We don’t know yet,” said Sherlock, “but it is definitely a lead. The killer is straight-up playing with us. Why would they bait us in a foreign language though? What’s the point of that?”

“Could be ‘Rachel,’” shrugged Molly. “Like ‘Rache’ is a nickname. Killer could be a girl.”

He flipped over the photograph.

“ _ ‘Did you miss me?’  _ We need to figure out who he’s talking to. Somehow this has to do with the Goallas and John, but there must be a connecting factor. The photos were left in an unmarked tray. We won’t be able to get at Professor Ling until Monday, but until then we can find the art students and ask who else uses the darkroom. It could be that one of them points us in the right direction.”

“But Sherlock,” said John, “they obviously planted these photos wanting us to find them. If they’re playing with anyone, it’s you.”

“But what emotional connection would I have with Stephen? Why him out of all of the lads? Why not Molly? Why rugby? I don’t give a damn about rugby.” 

He looked up at the lads. 

“No offense.”

Tyler shrugged. “Loads taken, but okay. So what’s our move?”

“Our next move is to tell the  _ police,” _ said Molly. 

Stephen scoffed. “Yeah, because they accomplished so much the last time we called them.”

“Stephen!”

“No, Molly, listen. I don’t know how John ties into all of this and I don’t know anyone named Rachel, but I do know my Mum’s got loads of enemies. Someone who doesn’t know her very well could be killing off Goallas just to get a stab at her. Bastards. She didn’t even attend Pratheesh’s funeral. There’s no way in hell she’d even send a flower arrangement to mine.”

“But it was supposed to be you!” said Molly. “You were the target, Steph.”

“How do we know Pratheesh wasn’t next? Look!” he motioned to the line-up. “All three of us are on here. What do you make of it?”

They looked to Sherlock. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “and I don’t like not knowing.”

He seemed to have a thought. 

“John, what would jam a radio signal?”

“What?”

“The walkie-talkies, give me one.”

Molly handed him hers. He tried it again, getting only static and they were all standing right next to each other. 

“I had a couple of those when I was young,” said Greg. “They only do that if the batteries are low. They work off of a single-frequency wireless signal. If anything, they pick up transmissions, other people’s conversations if they’re using a similar two-way communication device. Hell, Chloe and I used to get in trouble with my dad for comming in on police sets. They don’t just stop working unless they don’t have enough power.”

“I charged them last night,” said John. “The cold weather could be draining the batteries.”

“It’s not that cold,” said Sherlock. He suddenly ran, waving the device in front of the window. 

“What are you doing?” said Molly.

“Trying to get his attention!”

He pressed the speaker button. “This is Sherlock Holmes. I got your message loud and clear. So who are you? Over.”

He buzzed out. 

“Sherlock—”

“What game are you playing?” he buzzed back in. “My friend was worried about paper trails but he missed a big one. You like old technology, don’t you? And a two-way radio signal is never private, is it? You’re baiting us, so I know that you want someone to play. Leave the other’s out of it.” He looked out the window. “You’ve got me.”

Their walkies buzzed, so everyone could listen. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” said a delicate, yet frightening voice. “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone? And you forgot to say ‘over.’ Over.”

The voice faded to static.

Sherlock’s throat bobbed. 

“Oh, let me guess,” said Sherlock. “I get killed?”

The voice didn’t say anything.

Sherlock sighed. “Over?”

“Kill you? N-No, don’t be  _ obvious. _ I’m gonna kill you anyway someday. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, no. If you don’t stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn,” the voice paused, “ _ the heart out of you.  _ Or didn’t you get my message?”

Sherlock glanced over at John.

No. 

_ You are the heart of me, John Watson. _

He composed his face. Best not to let this frequency phantom know hold badly he’d shaken him. 

The com buzzed, “Over.”

Sherlock commed back. “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

“But we both know that’s not quite true.”

The Thirteen gasped. 

“Oh, God, John!” 

Molly tried to step in front of him, but Stephen held her back. He didn’t have to. Sherlock was shielding them both the second he saw it, the red laser now pointed at his own chest instead of John and Molly’s foreheads. 

“See?” the voice commed in. “I told you. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes. Over.”

Sherlock tensed, waiting for the deathblow that he would happily take, but it never came. Slowly he lifted his walkie and commed back. 

“Catch. You. Later,” he whispered.

The voice buzzed back almost immediately. It sounded like it was  _ singing.  _

“No, you won’t! And Sherlock, you still forgot to say ‘over.’”


	34. Sherlock Holmes and the Great Disappearing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a smutty chapter, so if you don't want to read that, I will be posting a summary at the top of the next chapter explaining what happened. Okay? 
> 
> Okay.

Sherlock practically threw John into their bedroom. He tore the room apart, sweeping for bugs and closing the blinds to the window. He threw their television and gaming consoles into a box and stored them in the custodian’s closet. Before John could ask what the hell was the matter with him, he snatched the remaining walkie-talkies and John’s mobile and dumped them in some sort of special, galvanized bin from MI5 with their laptops. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Are you alright?”

“What?”

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

Sherlock dropped the mattress he was searching under and squeezed John’s shoulders so tight it was sure to leave bruises in the shape of his fingers. 

John’s heart jumped into this throat. He’d never seen Sherlock so panicked. Sad? Broken? Yes. But panicked? The man who was always in control, the man who was always one step ahead of everyone else? His eyes were wild and he bared his teeth like an animal ready to strike. 

“I’m fine,” said John. “Sherlock, you’re gripping me too tight.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he slammed John into his chest, holding him even tighter. 

“They could have _killed_ you. In a _second_ . I wouldn’t have been fast enough. Molly was there before me. God, _Molly_.”

“Calm down. We’re all okay. For all we know it was just a couple of kids playing around with a laser pointer.”

“ _IT WASN’T, JOHN._ This person jammed a radio signal, they _carved_ into someone’s flesh, they _impaled_ someone. They aren’t playing! These are proven killers and they have you on the list. A list, John. Like you like making! The only thing they’re playing with is our heads!”

“You’re right.” John held up his hands.

Trying to invalidate Sherlock’s fears wouldn’t help. 

This was real. 

“I know you’re scared,” said John. 

“I’m not _scared!_ ” Sherlock kicked the galvanized box so hard he left a dent in it. It was a wonder he hadn’t broken his foot. “I’m…”

“Panicking?” asked John.

“Horrified!” Sherlock spat the word. “You were worried about me and I promised you that nothing would ever happen to you, and in the next second they—!”

“I know,” cut John. “But I’m okay now. I wish you hadn’t done that.”

Some of his own delayed panic crept into his voice. 

“Please think about how I’d feel. God, if all that empathy bullshit I’ve been coaching you on doesn’t take anywhere else, please never do that again.”

“Do what?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide with fear. John was almost crying. Was he traumatized? “Tell me, tell me what’s wrong!” 

“You jumped in front of a _sniper,_ Sherlock! How do you think I’d feel knowing you or Molly died for me?”

Sherlock froze, barely aware John was yelling at him. 

“Empathy,” said Sherlock, “means the ability to understand or share the feelings of another. I understand it perfectly. It’s you who seems to have the problem. There will _never_ come a time when I’ll hesitate to take a bullet for you, John Watson! If that’s the only way to save you, then that’s what’s gonna happen!”

They were both shaking and furious with one another. For what, they weren’t sure, only that they’d come to a stalemate about something too important to be ignored.

John locked their door. “Are you done sweeping for bugs?”

Sherlock nodded. “There weren’t any. If they tapped this room they’d probably run into trouble with the signals from Mycroft. He isn’t a man whose attention you want to get.”

“Good.” John pressed down on Sherlock’s shoulder until he was sitting on the bed beside him. 

“Sherlock, babe, I am so sorry all of this happened, but we have a lead. We have something to go on now, don’t you see? We have a prayer of busting this case.”

“To hell with the case!” Sherlock jumped off the bed, holding his hand out to stop John from following him.

He paused for a moment, seemingly trying to decide the best course of action. He was calculating, John could tell, but Sherlock had never hesitated like this before. The decision must’ve been a big one. He looked John straight in the hazel eyes, got down on one knee, and pulled a velvet box out of his trouser pockets. 

John heard the sound fade out of the room. He thought he was going to faint. 

“We’re sixteen!”

“It’s not like that.” 

Sherlock opened the box. It held a simple, black ring. 

“It’s nothing fancy,” he said. “I debated a long time between medical-grade silicone so you’d never have to take it off or titanium, but I ultimately went with titanium because it fit better with my design plans.”

“You _designed_ this?”

“Don’t interrupt, John. I’m having a difficult time with this.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, I designed it. It’s waterproof, it’s durable, and best of all,” Sherlock removed the ring, tilting it so John could see the green computer chips showing through the inside gilt. “It is totally hack-proof. It’ll show me your vitals and where you are at all times. But don’t worry. I promise only to activate those settings if in the case of an extreme emergency. One stalker is enough, don’t you think?”

John fisted the mattress. His voice broke like he was going through puberty again. “And this isn’t an engagement ring?”

 _“No,”_ said Sherlock. “This is… Oh, I don’t know what the hell it is!”

John scrunched his lips and swagged his head side to side, but not too much though. He still felt like he was going to pass out. He hadn’t eaten all evening either. 

“The getting down on one knee thing _might_ have been a bit too far in one corner. Sorry.”

John’s lips twitched and he pulled Sherlock to his feet and sat him on the bed. 

“Babe,” he looked down at the ring. “This is incredible. How long have you had this?”

“Nevermind that,” said Sherlock. “That isn't important. What is important is that you promise to wear this no matter… no matter what happens. With us. You need to wear it. Please.”

John took it and immediately put it on his finger. It fit perfectly.

“I love it.”

John leaned forward and kissed him, but for a moment he thought that Sherlock had inched away from him. He studied his face. Sherlock looked serene, happy, almost too happy for how he’d behaved earlier. 

“I want you to have something too,” said John. 

He slipped his dog tags over his head.

Sherlock stopped him, anxiety rising in his voice. “No! No, those were your father’s. I don’t want anything in return.”

“Don’t worry,” smiled John. He reached into his shirt and pulled out another tag. “See? There are two of them. One is supposed to stay with the body and the other is taken to the CO. My dad came back with both. I’ve only split them up and put one on a new chain.”

Sherlock was stunned. Instead of looking pleased, he looked pale. “You planned… ?”

“Of course,” said John. “I always meant to. I just never seemed the right time. Is… now not the right time?”

Something clicked behind Sherlock’s eyes. 

“John.” He hovered so John could feel his breath dusting across his lips. “Now is the only time.”

His hands ghosted against John’s body, slow at first, but then rough. He thought that he would shake out of his skin he was so nervous, but John was in a similar state, the two of them shrugging off jackets and shakily removing the other's clothes as the bedroom floor became littered with John's ruined rental and Sherlock's emerald dress shirt. Their hot chests pressed against one another and John swore he could feel their heartbeats pumping at the same time. 

John ducked his head and bit along Sherlock's neck, then his collarbone, then the base of his throat, until he was nipping along the edge of his pectoral. He fumbled with Sherlock's zipper until the trousers fell around his ankles.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” panted Sherlock, his words heavy with lust but his expression pained. John saw this and worried. Did he not want this? He rose up to ask, but when he did, Sherlock bit John’s bottom lip, sucking so hard it bruised, and lifted him by the back of the knees. John wrapped his arms around his neck and locked his ankles behind his back. Sherlock pressed him against the wall, riding him. The way he kissed him sat on the line separating romance from debauchery, and John didn't know which way he wanted him to go.

Maybe the contrasting balance was perfect, just like them.

Sherlock moved them to the bed, laying down John with a reverence he seldom placed on anything and breathed him in. He broke long enough to sit up on his haunches. He unbuttoned John’s trousers and felt inside to loop his fingers over the waistband of his underwear at the same time. In one fluid motion, he peeled away the last layer dividing him from every inch of John's skin, and his erection sprung free, hard and swollen. Sherlock had seen him before, had known him before, but somehow this was different. Why? It was just a matter of placement, so what made it so different?

 _Trust,_ his mind supplied. _This is all a matter of trust, and this action is the most personal of all._

He hesitated, wondering if he should stop, should simply _tell_ John his fears, but if he did he feared he'd live his whole life regretting that he'd never been this way with the only person who mattered. 

He trusted John Watson, even if John shouldn't trust him. 

Sherlock leapt up and tore off his own underwear, leaning over to where John could see his ass. When he turned around, John already had the lube out of the nightstand drawer, as well as a certain pair of fuzzy handcuffs. 

Mycroft always said he was like a cat with nine lives. If that was true, Sherlock lost his sixth one from the sight alone. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, his voice rising and falling in a series of strangled breaths. 

John cuffed his hands above his head, the chain looped through the iron post of the headboard. 

“I don’t want to think,” said John, his legs spread wider, purposefully. “I just want you. You like this, don't you?”

Sherlock felt his cock twitch and he crawled between John’s knees, his entire body withering.

“Oh, God, I wish I didn’t,” he whispered shakily, but he descended, face first as he raked his teeth lightly over John’s swollen member, taking him with his free hand while he rolled John’s nipple with the other. His hips bucked, deepthroating him.

“Baby, you’re such a tease,” John moaned, looking over desperately at the lube on the nightstand. 

Sherlock popped his lips over the head of John’s cock. 

“I’ll take my time with you,” he breathed, looking up to study his half-closed eyes. “I want to remember this.”

_I want to remember you._

He was back, bringing John to the edge before drawing him back. He finally did reach over on the nightstand, lathering himself and his finger before gently teasing at John’s entrance.

“Slow,” John tensed when he began, and so Sherlock worked him while bobbing his head over his cock at the same time. John jolted when his finger ghosted over something inside him, something that felt better than anything else. 

“I love the sounds you make,” said Sherlock. “They’re almost as fuckable as the faces you make.”

He sat up then, lifting John’s knees and draping them over his shoulders. 

“Is this okay?”

John quirked a brow, shaking off some of the stupor that'd overtaken him.

"YouTube?" he asked huskily.

Sherlock had to bite at the bend in John's knee to keep from laughing.

"Do you think everything I learn is from YouTube?"

"If not, I'd sure as hell like to know where you got this move from."

John's body quaked with anticipation, so Sherlock repeated himself, "Is this okay?"

"Yeah," John's throat bobbed. "This is fine."

Sherlock nodded. He positioned himself over John’s entrance, holding his ass in his hands. He inched in slowly, adding more lubricant and waiting for John’s muscles to relax before pressing on. 

He felt so tight, so warm and divine. Sherlock didn’t know how he held himself back, but this was better than anything else that they had ever done. Better than showers, better than kissing. 

“Don’t… Don’t let me hurt you,” he pleaded.

“You won’t.”

John’s trust gutted him.

He began to move, began rolling his hips slowly until he once again found John’s prostate. He withered beneath him, mewling in a series of incoherent whimpers that became shouts and curses and high-pitched appeals for mercy the faster and more erratic their thrusts became. John's back arched and his face looked like he was in pain, but when Sherlock stopped, he started begging.

_“Harder, Jesus, harder, God, please.”_

Who was he to deny him anything? John deserved the world.

If Sherlock had had his wits about him, maybe he would have made some quip about John leaving religion out of their bedroom, but he was feeling pretty heavenly himself, so he picked up the pace, feeling his own climax building so near he could touch it. 

“Christ, John.” 

He dropped John's legs and lowered them to his sides, overcome with the need to press their chests together, to let him know he was near, even if it was only for this one night. He nipped at his lips, lapped at his racing pulse as he caressed his face, but he couldn’t keep it up. 

He had to press away, posting up on his arms and gasping as his hips thrust sporadically until at long last they both hit their high, spurting ropes into and all over the other. 

It was messy, sticky, hot, and easily more erotic than the stairwell, but also, intimate. He felt like collapsing, but he didn't want to let up from his position above John. He didn't want to stop looking as his face relaxed into a contented smile. Finally, his endurance gave out. He never understood people who took pictures of such events, but he did now. 

He'd remember John's face this way for the rest of his life.

His hands shook as he let John out of his handcuffs. He didn’t know how his muscles were still working. 

John panted beside him, kissing him between breaths. 

“Wow,” was all he seemed to be able to say.

Sherlock smiled, wistful, trailing his fingertips over John’s lips. 

“No need to look like that,” said John. “Gimme at least half an hour and we’ll go again.”

He sounded breathless, and Sherlock was too, though not exactly for the same reasons. John jangled the cuffs.

“Your turn next? Or do you and Irene share a dominatrix kink?” 

Sherlock fought a smile. He kissed him, deep and devoted, cataloging the sensations that could not be allowed to fade from his mind. 

He broke away. “My heart,” he said, holding his lips against his forehead.

_Oh, how I hate myself for breaking it. I don't know if I can do this. Forgive me._

Sherlock's resolve faltered, but steadied as John whispered in his ear, “I love you.”

_And I love you, more than you'll ever know._

John kissed him, and Sherlock was glad of it. 

He didn’t have it in him to say aloud. Not this time.

_______________________________________________________________________

Mycroft stood in the thicket outside of the orchard, waiting for Greg. He watched as the boy rounded the corner, walking what was apparently his date back to the Barrie dormitories.

“Mike is staying with Betty. I do not wish for you to be alone.”

The taller boys, ghostly looking with his pale hair in the moonlight, took Greg by the hand, his accent heavy with French. 

“I’ll be fine,” Greg squeezed Dorian’s hand in return. 

It might as well have been Mycroft’s heart. 

“I’m not on the list and neither are you. But text me though if you feel uncomfortable, if you feel like you… don’t want to be alone.”

The boys stopped on the sidewalk. Greg was still holding Dorian’s hand, only now he was looking up into the Frenchman’s icy eyes. Greg rolled his bottom lip over his teeth and looked away, blood rushing under the skin of his cheeks. 

Dorian lifted Greg’s chin. “When I am with you, I never want to be alone.” 

Greg’s breaths seemed to come to heavier than they had before, but he shook himself out of it, moving at the last second before their lips could connect. Dorian had leaned down, taking all the signs into consideration, and was crestfallen that he’d gotten it wrong. 

“I am sorry,” he said, dropping his hand away from Greg’s face. 

“No, it isn’t you,” said Greg.

He was still holding Dorian’s hand. 

“I should love you, Dorian, and maybe if I’d never met Mycroft, I would, but it wouldn't be right of me, D. I can’t lay with you knowing I’d wish for it to be someone else. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

Dorian’s pained expression gave way to desperation. “I do not care what is fair to me. I want you, Gregorie. I _love_ you. Enough for the both of us.”

“Don’t.” Greg ripped his hand away. “Don’t be like me, Dorian. You should be with someone who sees you and only you. I’d give anything to have that with Myc, but he doesn't…”

His voice broke and his throat bobbed. “He doesn't _want_ me.”

Dorian looked to Barrie off in the distance, closer to the more central part of campus than this beaten path they’d walked. “If Mycroft Holmes does not want you, then he is the greatest fool who ever lived.” 

He stepped away.

“When you want me, Gregorie, I will be here for you,” said Dorian. “I think I can find my way home from here.”

Greg tried to call after him, but he was already walking. 

He sighed and took his phone from his pocket, dialing Mycroft. 

Mycroft covered his speaker and answered after the first ring. “Hello, Gregory.”

He struggled to keep the emotion out of his own voice, even something as basic as hello. 

_He doesn’t want me._

The little fool.

“Myc,” said Greg. “We’ve got a problem. Did you get the texts I sent?”

“Yes,” nodded Mycroft, like Greg could see. “I’ve already got a unit of agents working the case. Your little stalker, from the sounds of things, is working with Jim Moriarty. That’s who I think was on your frequency tonight. He could very well be gunning for John in an effort to bait Sherlock for Eurus, but Jim _likes_ playing with his target. Not unlike Sherlock, he thinks the whole thing a game.”

“He didn’t think that tonight,” said Greg. “I’ve never seen him so keyed up. He pretty much carried John and ran with him all the way into Baker.”

“He’s afraid,” said Mycroft. “Anyone would be when overcome by sentiment. When… protecting the people you, that I…”

He couldn’t finish. The words seemed stuck in his throat. 

He stepped out of the brush. 

Greg whipped around. “Mycroft?”

He was still speaking into the phone. 

“Do you really think that I don’t want you? After everything I told you?” said Mycroft, clicking his own phone closed. 

Greg slowly lowered his own. 

“I told you I can’t stay away from you, Mr. Lestrade. But I can’t be with you. I came here tonight because I thought that I could change that, but after what you’ve told me, it would only harm you more.”

The skin bunched up around his eyes and his forehead wrinkled. “How many times can I tell a single person goodbye?”

Greg walked up to him, his jaw firm and his countenance resolute. “Again,” he said. “Stay with me tonight and tell me goodbye again. And again. And again. We can beat this guy, Myc. It doesn’t have to be this way. I told _you,”_ he reached up on his tiptoes and bit his lip. “I’m not done with you yet, Mycroft Holmes.”

Sod it. 

Mycroft kissed him back before coming to his wits. 

“Not here.”

“My dorm then?” said Greg. 

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded. “But don’t expect me to say goodbye. Don’t expect anything. Only expect me to leave.”

Greg’s face fell, but he rallied his heart. 

“All I expect,” he said, “is to have you praying my name.”

Mycroft had never moved faster.

_______________________________________________________________________

Sherlock stood over a sleeping John, his dreams fitful. John kept muttering things like, _“No, Sherlock, don’t!”_ or _“Fall back, it’s an ambush,”_ and talking in military code. He was dreaming that he was a soldier, it seemed, worried more than he had admitted earlier about Sherlock taking a bullet. John’s body even winced in his sleep as though shot. 

That was the final nail in the coffin, though Sherlock had made up his mind long before their lovemaking that he would go. 

He couldn’t stay knowing he was a sniper's barrel trained on John Watson.

Neither of them would survive it if John took a bullet to the head. It’d kill them both. 

Sherlock looked down at the envelope in his hand. 

_Fucking coward,_ he told himself.

But how else could he go? John would make that face and he’d cave in a second. John would see straight through him. Sherlock’s love for him was as plain as the nose on his face, and so he had to do everything within his power to make John 

believe

that he never 

wanted 

him. 

It was only ever a trick.


	35. Everybody Calls Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the last chapter (since I promised a summary for those you don't want to read the smut), Sherlock is badly shaken by the events in chapter 33, and he makes love with John, though keeps hinting that it might be the only time he's ever with him. John has a nightmare about him and Sherlock getting shot, and later Mycroft catches Dorian putting the moves on Greg. However, Mycroft spends the night with Greg before leaving again. Mycroft recognizes that the stalker is working with Moriarty, and Sherlock leaves a letter for John before going away.

_Chapter 35_

John stretched across the flannel sheets, his bones shifting as he woke. He yawned and rubbed the heels of his palms against his sleep-crusted eyes. The nightmare blistered at the back of his brain, had torn at him like barbed wire, and so he felt like he hadn’t slept at all. The soreness of his lower body hadn't helped anything either, but that was different. That was a good hurt. 

_No,_ he told himself, thinking of the nightmare again. _You aren’t a soldier. Sherlock’s fine. It was only a dream._

The midday sun streamed through the cracks in the window blinds. He reached for Sherlock in the place where he’d lain with him in his arms the night before, but wasn’t surprised to find he wasn’t there. Sherlock rarely slept in, no matter how much rest he got. John rolled over on his side and felt the texture of paper crackling at his ribs. 

Odd, it wasn’t like Sherlock to leave him notes, but this was new territory.

He smiled. 

John reached beneath his body and pulled out a note. Sweet, he thought, of Sherlock to leave him a love letter the morning after. Restless as he was, he’d still thought of him. Maybe he would keep it. Hell, he already knew he’d keep it in a shoebox like a lovesick fool.

John unfolded the letter. The top read, _Dear John,_ in violet ink.

_Dear John,_

_This is my note, because isn’t that what people do? I don’t want to confuse you, so I’ll put it as bluntly as I can: I’ve moved out. I’m officially breaking things off. I realized last night that our relationship can’t go on as it is. I’m afraid I lied to you earlier._

_You said you worried that I was growing bored with you. Last night only cemented that I am. I knew the whole time that our courtship was due to fail. After all, I don’t really care about anyone, and I especially don’t care what you think. I only wish I’d told you earlier, but I wasn’t sure._

_I don’t believe in “ghosting” or whatever Ryan calls it, so here it is in black and white. My Dear John letter. I no longer have feelings for you. You were the heart of me, John Watson, and now I’m giving it back, happy to lay down the burden._

_We arrive at the end of the line._

_-SH_

John sat up, rereading the note over and over again. Was it a code? Was it really his handwriting? 

It was.

But last night…

His hands shook and he bit his bruised bottom lip so hard it bled. Though he knew he wouldn't pick up, John called Sherlock. The phone immediately went to voicemail. 

He’d blocked him.

John ran to Greg’s door. He knocked so hard people six doors away popped out telling him to keep it down. 

“Hey,” Greg greeted, sporting bruises of his own, but John didn't see anyone else in the room.

Mycroft. 

It had to be.

Did all Holmeses make a hobby of tearing their lovers apart before leaving them? 

John handed him the note. What could he say that Sherlock hadn’t?

“He _wrote_ this to you?” said Greg incredulously after he’d read it. He seemed just as stunned as John felt. “It can’t be. He wouldn’t do this! He’s barmy about you. It… It must be because of last night with the bloke on the other end of the comms threatening you. Don’t you see? He’s trying to distance himself to keep you safe.”

John shook his head. “No, he’d never do that to me. Lie like that. We promised, Greg. Sherlock and I don’t… We didn’t lie to each other.”

He clenched his eyes shut, but it wasn’t enough to hold back the hot tears streaming down his reddening face. He didn’t try talking again, afraid if he did he’d lose what was left of his composure. 

“This is bollocks, John, and you know it! The only thing more bullshit than this letter is what you’re saying. I’ll phone the lads.”

John kept shaking his head. 

_No, Greg. I don’t want an audience for this. Please, it's too painful._

How could he have been such a fool? 

“I thought he loved me,” he said, his voice breaking on _loved._ “I thought he was my friend.”

Greg called after him, “John! Wait, come back. We can fix this!”

John didn’t even remember turning to go, but it was like his body wasn’t under his control. He slammed the door to his room and slid to the floor against it, his body wracked with sobs. His face broke, shattered, crumpled up like the letter after the tenth time he’d read it. John had always been an ugly crier, and this was the ugliest cry of his life. Nothing, not even his father’s death compared to the overwhelming sense of loss. He felt awful about that, but he’d always expected to lose his father someday.

Sherlock was supposed to be for the rest of his life.

The lads and the girls came by, each of them begging him to come out, but he hated them for it and hated himself because at every knock he pathetically hoped it might be Sherlock, and his heart broke all over again when it wasn’t. He stayed in his room for days, only leaving when the school called the therapist and Gloria threatened to call his mum. 

That’s how he ended up in Gloria’s office. She preached breakups, but he didn’t weigh in. He didn’t want to talk. What was it Sherlock had called them? Empty words?

_I wouldn’t want words. I would want you._

How could he have ever believed that he provided something for Sherlock Holmes? John, an ordinary, worthless simpleton for him to dazzle and impress? His extraordinary friend was gone, along with the happiness that’d once seemed so wholesome and real. 

_But what if he is doing it to protect you? What if he still loves you?_

If heartbreak wouldn’t kill him, hope would finish the job, and he couldn’t allow that. 

On the fifth day, John kneeled by the side of his bed and prayed. He prayed until he couldn’t feel his knees, and he didn’t know what the hell he was praying for, only that he hoped God could feel it. He then rose up, dragged himself to the common room where the lads were sitting, and waited. What for, he didn’t know that either, but he waited.

“John!” said Molly, shooting to her feet first, but everyone did, with concern etched across their tense faces. 

He must’ve looked like three-day-old roadkill.

Mike approached him as if he were a flighty animal. “John, we’re so happy to see you. We were worried.”

Scratch that. _Five-day-old_ roadkill. 

John nodded, but it looked more like he was shaking. “I’m sorry I worried you. I won’t anymore.”

That last sentence didn’t come out right, and Molly took it the _wrong_ way. She grabbed him around the torso and demanded he stay in Ryan and Tyler’s room. Theirs was the only one that Sherlock and John had never hung out in. 

Least amount of memories.

“That _berk._ That absolute _shit._ The dumbassed _motherfucker._ I’ll kill him! I’ll save the murderer some fucking time and I’ll kill him!” said Molly as she slipped a fresh pair of socks on John’s feet.

No one expressed an opposing sentiment, no one except Stephen. 

“I understand why he did it, Hoops, that’s all I’m saying. If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d leave you if I thought it would keep you safe.”

“Then fuck you too!” screamed Molly. “Look at him! Does he look _safe_ to you?” She hurled the soiled socks at Stephen. “Where the hell is Sherlock Holmes? That selfish bastard thinks he’s so much smarter than everybody else. I want him to see what he did!”

John finally stood and spoke on his own accord. 

“That’s okay, Molly. Please.”

He spoke so softly that she let up on her righteous tirade, waiting for John to speak. 

“I…” 

He sighed. He hadn’t realized until his shoulders had drooped just how tense he’d been. It felt like bags of lead hanging from strings on every major muscle, like a toxic stress Christmas tree and his bones were the branches.

“I know I haven’t been a good friend to you, locking myself up and ignoring everyone.”

“That’s bullshit and so is this whole situation!” said Ryan. “You’re a great friend, John. You always have been.”

John struggled not to cry. “Let me finish. I-I have to say this while I can.”

He leaned his head up towards the ceiling and willed his eyes to dry. 

“I’ve been wallowing, feeling sorry for myself, and I can’t promise that I’ll not do it again, but I’m done hiding. It doesn’t matter that Sherlock left school.”

Ryan and Tyler looked at one another.

“John,” they finally said, “Sherlock didn’t leave school.”

A new wave of hurt washed over him. 

He kept on. “It doesn't matter that Sherlock left _me._ I still want to pursue this investigation, even if it’s without his help. I… I want to join the rugby team.”

Greg fell off his barstool. How he’d longed to hear those words, but not like this. 

“John, are you sure, mate?” asked Eddy. 

“Yeah,” John nodded. “I’m sure. I know that it’s the second game of the season, but maybe if Coach knows it’s for the investigation, he’ll still let me play. I need to be there if any of you are in trouble. I won’t run away. I want to meet this guy head-on, and I promise I won’t hold you back as a team.”

“He shouldn’t be making decisions right now,” Molly whispered as Stephen called his father. 

“And what should he be doing, Molly? Hmm? Wasting in his room, bleeding his heart out for Sherlock Holmes? I lost my brother and if I hadn’t had something to keep me busy, someone to keep me going, I would have gone insane. Because I had you it was okay, but John has _nobody,_ just us. If this is what he chooses, I support it.”

“Why are you being this way?”

“Because I know from experience that when someone tells you they don’t want you, you should believe it! Don’t give him false hope.”

John knew that, more than anything, Stephen was talking about his relationship with his mother. It tore him apart worse than he’d ever admitted, but it still wounded John because he also knew it meant that Stephen saw that same desperation in him.

By the next day, he was on the team, learning drills and practicing with the boys. It felt like old times again when he’d get into fights with Harry’s friends just to keep the shakes at bay. The more he moved, the better he felt. 

Strangely, after John arrived, Coach switched everyone’s positions. Greg kept his position as a fly-half, Ryan and Tyler remained flankers, and Eddy stayed as a center, but he reassigned everyone else, making John a tighthead prop and Mike a loosehead prop. He made Brett a center with Eddy and gave Stephen Pratheesh’s old position as right-wing. He’d been so moved when his father gave him his brother's number that no one uttered a word of protest, at least until later that evening when Anderson went off about it.

Greg silenced him with a single phrase: “Do you wanna be a hook again?”

John didn’t weigh in on such debates but did as he was told, dealing out raw aggression. Props were arguably the manliest men on the pitch, whatever the hell that meant, and John translated that to mean, “Hit ‘em hard,” and he did. He could anchor the scrum, and between him and Mike, they could drive a maul straight across the try line. Coach actually let him play and, for the first time in over a year, the Badgers _won a match._

Despite the threat of a psychotic sniper looming over their heads, the boys were ecstatic. John thought that Coach was going to go into cardiac arrest he’d looked so surprised. 

Slowly, John started to feel a little better. 

But during practice, he would still strut around the field with two middle fingers raised in the direction of nobody in particular. 

“You want something to photograph? Photograph _this_ you cowardly, bitch!”

His behavior started to change more dramatically when Sherlock actually began attending the classes that they shared. 

John sat where he always did, but Sherlock went clear across the room and stole someone else’s seat.

“Go sit by your boyfriend, faggot.”

Sherlock had looked at John, and honestly? He didn’t know what Sherlock wanted him to say. “Don’t call him a faggot?” or “He’s not my boyfriend?” What did it matter?

“Back off, House,” John said monotonously without looking back. “It’s just a seat. If you didn’t carve your name in it or piss on it, it isn’t marked territory.”

“Just because you two aren’t fucking anymore doesn’t mean I have to give a shit.”

John lunged before he knew what he was doing, but Greg caught him. The teacher reprimanded House and sent him out of the room, but she didn’t do anything to John. People treated him like a wounded tiger. 

Dying, but deadly. 

John finally caught Sherlock one day after class. He held up the letter. He carried it around with him everywhere to remind him that Sherlock didn’t want him in the quiet moments when he felt like groveling.

_You’re irresistible when you’re groveling._

“This is bullshit.” John threw the letter down. “You couldn’t even face me? Couldn’t tell me the truth? Or is this how you really feel?”

He waited, but Sherlock said nothing.

“One word, Sherlock. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Sherlock shouldered past him. “Bye.”

“Hold on, we’re not finished!”

John grabbed him by the arm and flung him to the ground. A crowd gathered, expecting a fight, but quickly dispersed when John threatened to fight _them._

“Tell me the truth.”

“The letter _was_ the truth,” said Sherlock, scraping himself up off the grass.

“Fucking _coward_ ,” accused John. He spat the word at him.

“You think you’re so special that you’re the only person I want to shag for the rest of my life? I’m sixteen years old, John. It’s not like we were married. It isn’t my fault you took an adolescent relationship so seriously. Everyone says ‘I love you’ at our age. Nobody means it.”

He felt ripped in half all over again. 

John turned. He wouldn’t run. 

“You’re still the heart of me, Sherlock Holmes,” he said over his shoulder. “Only now do I see how black and shriveled it is.”

John walked away, and he swore he felt nothing.

Nothing. 

In fact, he felt nothing for days after, only vaguely aware that he was walking around in a daze as if he were watching a Sims character live out his life. Later on, Gloria would tell him that he was disassociating, but Gloria told him a lot of things that he didn’t pay attention to, even if most of it was bang on. 

John slept. He ate keto for Christ’s sake. He played rugby, and he waited on the pitch at night, alone, for someone to come find him. He wanted a fight. To hell with the outcome.

“I’m worried about John,” said Stephen, showing the lads his forgotten tray in the cafeteria. “Look at what he’s eating.” 

Only half the meat was gone from the tray. Some broccoli had been chopped at, but that was it. 

“And he’s been doing this for weeks.”

“I don’t know what the problem is,” shrugged Ryan. “The little dude’s getting swole as hell. He’s absolutely shredded.”

“Yeah,” said Hilary, “because he has no body fat, Ryan. That’s unhealthy.”

“Is he still staying on the pitch at night?” asked Molly. 

“Yeah,” nodded Greg. “I found him out there last night in the rain. It’s ruddy December and he didn’t even shiver, just sits there on the try line like he hopes lightning will strike the post and kill him.”

“He has been working on the case,” said Tyler. “I saw him yesterday talking to the art club. It was a dead-end apparently. The less progress he makes, the more depressed he gets. It’s like Sherlock but scarier, if that’s possible.”

No one spoke. 

“You need to tell him, Stephen.”

“Hoops, we’ve been through this. It’ll only make it worse.”

“Then tell your dad at least.”

“Tell him what? That he’s got a crackhead living in his house? He beat the shit out of Pratheesh once just for coming home with beer on his breath. You know how dad feels about drugs.”

But Stephen didn’t have to tell John. Someone else beat him to it.

John was walking to the convenience store on the edge of the village when she found him. He heard her heels before he saw her.

“Hello, Mr. Watson.”

He’d never seen her in person before, but somehow she was even more beautiful than on screen, taller than he’d expected and wearing her brown hair all the way to her knees. It made her look younger than when she was working for Mycroft.

His adam’s apple bobbed. This woman belonged to a life that wasn’t his anymore.

“Hello,” he paused, “Miss Khan.”

She smiled, weak but genuine. Anthea led him to a dimly lit cafe on the north side of the village and bought him a cuppa, oolong like she knew he liked. She drank coffee, straight black. She inhaled the scent like it was precious, the steam breaking beneath her hooked nose and so heavy it was a wonder it didn’t condensate in her thick, brown brows. They didn’t speak for at least half an hour, just staring out at the cars driving through puddles on the cobbled streets. 

“Do you and Sherlock hate each other now?” she asked, sipping like she hadn’t asked for anything more difficult than his name. 

John set down his cup. It’s not like he was drinking it anyway.

“I don’t know,” he said. 

“Yes, you do. I asked if you hate each other. If you’re so certain Sherlock hates you, then all you need to confirm it is if you hate him. Do you hate him?”

John looked at his hands, but they no longer shook.

Somehow that wasn’t a good thing, but he didn’t know why.

“I love him, more than I ever have,” he said, and he knew it was true even if he couldn’t feel it. “So no, we don’t hate each other.”

Anthea contemplated over her coffee. Finally, she drank the last sip and she forced John to look her in the eye. Her irises were the deepest brown he’d ever seen, almost black like a jewel. There was something so powerful and unapologetic in the way she didn’t try to be conventional, but instead was a statement all in herself. John thought he saw her secret.

She was a woman who knew great sorrow.

“I fell in love once. Love of my life,” she said, drawing hearts in the condensation on the window. “I’m only twenty-six, John. I’ll never have another. I don’t want one. For the rest of my life, I’ll walk around alone. I wasn’t even supposed to live this long, but I did,” she shrugged. “I lived long to watch my reason take a bullet through the back of the head. It was quick. It was clean. It was the best we could have hoped for, but it isn’t what I hoped for.”

Anthea wiped the hearts off the window. She broke her reverie, studying her own hands and turning them over like she thought she’d find something.

“We’d been shot at plenty of times,” she continued, but her voice wasn’t as steady. “I didn’t believe it at first, didn’t move, but you don’t get a lot of options in the Marines. When I accepted her death, I didn’t feel anything, just watched as I snapped the necks of every single last bastard responsible, but when I snapped back, it was _indescribable._ ” Her voice broke on the last word and she covered her mouth with her knuckles, quaking. Her brows knitted and wrinkled her forehead as she shook, but then Anthea breathed and was composed again, bouncing her crossed leg as if she hadn’t just shared her gut-wrenching heartbreak with a man experiencing his own. 

“I don’t know whose side to take,” said Anthea. “His for wanting to keep you alive, or yours for being angry with him for wasting the time that he has left.”

John swallowed his emotions. It was no time to feel. 

He didn’t want to be on the business end of _indescribable._

“I don’t even know where he is.”

“I do,” said Anthea. 

She led him to a two-story stone cottage on a sloped peninsula in the middle of the street where the road forked on either side. The crumbling, rock fence outside was overgrown with wintery vines and mosses. There was a rusted, lone balcony on the second floor, and he thought he saw someone playing violin inside. The melody was the most melancholy piece he’d ever heard. 

“He’s at Coach’s house?” scoffed John. “Figures. We’ve started winning games. Coach has the injuries of players from every opposing team typed out and organized _alphabetically_. I should have known it was him. I guess I really am as stupid as he always said.”

“He doesn’t think you’re stupid,” said Anthea, tugging John to her by the waist. “He’s afraid for you. He doesn’t want to lose you.”

“Well, he is losing me, isn’t he?”

Anthea’s brows arched above her shimmering eyes. “John, you’re losing him too.”

She let him go and turned back to the balcony. “He’s using again.”

John didn’t speak, only listened to the song. Sherlock had never played it before. Not that he knew of.

“He started up again almost the moment he left. They can never stay clean when the loneliness hits. At least, he never could.”

John paused. “He doesn’t have to be alone. He has more than me.”

“That’s true,” said Anthea, “but you’re the only one that he _needs_. He needs you, John. You’re the only person who could ever reach him. Mycroft has tried. I’ve watched him try for years. But there’s too much hurt there.”

The thunder rolled and the rain came down harder. Anthea sheltered him under her umbrella.

“He’ll hurt you too. Hurt you real bad. All addicts do, and you’ve a right to give up on him any time you want for your own health and safety. But I didn’t give up,” said Anthea, “I never gave up on Evelyn, and she survived. Not for as long as I wanted, but she _did_. She was healthy. She was proud of herself. And I didn’t do it, John. She did. I was just the hand to help her up, no matter what she did to me.”

Anthea pulled out her phone, showing him pictures of a gorgeous woman with ebony skin and tight curls gathered under a camouflage helmet. Their cheeks were pressed together and they looked happy. Another photograph showed the woman with sallow skin and yellowing eyes. She was too skinny and she looked half out of her wits, but Anthea was with her, looking tense and ashen herself. Her hair was shorter, resting at her shoulders.

“It’s not a fight for everyone. In fact, I would warn others I know away, but not you. I’ve been watching you. You’re unhealthier without Sherlock than you are with, just like I was without Evelyn.” She looked up at the window one last time before leaving. She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Sleep on it. But do it in a bed and not on a rugby pitch.”

He heard Anthea leaving, her heels the heartbeat of a somber violin.

_______________________________________________________________________

John cornered Coach Goalla in his office the next day and gave him the whole spill. He told him about the track marks, about ballet school, about his rollercoaster of a birthday, leaving nothing out. Coach didn’t believe him at first, not until he recalled the ease with which he’d hidden his own addiction years prior, or had tried to until it became too much.

He gave John the key to his house and dismissed him. “Go. Kick his doped-up ass for me, would you? But try not to wreck my house.”

John nodded. “I’ll do my best, sir.” 

“The ass-kicking or not wrecking the house?”

He answered honestly.

“Both.”

John found Sherlock in the upstairs bedroom. The whole place looked like a paper bomb exploded. The walls were spray-painted with questions, clues, evidence, but John could tell that the corner desk wasn’t anything but a ruse, a clump of mismatched papers to hide his paraphianelia. There was an organization to Sherlock’s madness if you knew what to look for, and the desk didn’t fit. 

If he was surprised John was there, he didn’t show it.

Sherlock groaned, lobbing his head back. “I already told you, I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Well that’s hard shit, isn’t it? Because I do.”

 _That_ brought him out of it. His look of disinterest gave way to shock.

“John?”

“Who the hell else?”

John made for the desk and swept it off, sending syringes and powder packets flying. The chemical dust hung in the air like smoke. He scooped a needle off the floor and had to bite his lip to keep from losing it.

The tremors were back, but this time from pure, unadulterated rage. 

“I don’t need you anymore, Watson! You’re not my boyfriend, you’re not even my friend. Go play savior for someone else.” 

It took Sherlock all of three seconds to recover his asshole persona. 

He should have been an actor. 

“And that’s not what you’re doing? If I have a savior complex, then you must think you’re Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Is that why you’re here?” laughed Sherlock. “Because you think I didn’t mean it? Who’s got it in your head I left to protect you? Molly? Greg? They’re so worried about their own boyfriends leaving them they’re spitting that shit to make themselves feel better for when the inevitable comes. Nothing lasts, John, and if it did, it wouldn’t last with you.”

“Not even our friendship?”

_“I don’t have friends!”_

“Yes, you do,” said John, resolute and firm. “You’ve got more friends than you know what to do with, and you _don’t_ know what to do with them.”

Sherlock threw a beaker into the wall, shattering a framed picture of Kamadeva. “Can’t you just accept that I don’t want you anymore?”

John snapped.

“I DON’T CARE! I don’t care if we aren’t together. I don’t care if you hate me and have Mycroft mail me to Singapore when this is over! I don’t care if we aren’t friends! It doesn’t change anything for me, but you’re killing yourself.”

“You wanna know what I deduce when I look at you?” said Sherlock, marching up to John just so he could look down on him. “I deduce an insecure, pathetic adrenaline junkie who’s so starved for someone to love him, who’s just pleading for someone to treat him like he’s special that—”

John screamed over him. “You are killing yourself!” he shouted. “YOU’RE FUCKING KILLING YOURSELF. CAN’T YOU SEE THAT?”

“You’ve been sleeping on the rugby pitch wallowing in your own pity. Are you actually _mourning_ me?” He laughed. “The only thing more pathetic than that is _you._ ”

Tarmac headphones couldn’t have drowned out their screaming match, but no matter how loud Sherlock shouted, John shouted louder, and he only repeated one thing. 

You’re killing yourself, Sherlock. You’re dying.

He countered. “I’m not the one who’s got Molly scared shitless! You never loved me, John. You only loved the idea of someone loving you!”

John broke his nose. 

Sherlock staggered. 

He fell to one knee with his mouth hanging ajar as he caught himself on the edge of the table. “It took Mycroft four years just to slap me.”

“I’m not Mycroft.”

Neither said a word as John took a seat on the balcony and Sherlock plugged his nose with the sleeve of his bathrobe. 

“Okay,” sniffed John. “I get it. And you’re right. Most of the time. You’re just wrong on this one, but it doesn’t matter. I respect that you don’t want me. Just give me my father's dog tag back and I’ll go.”

Sherlock’s muscles jumped under his skin. He dropped the sleeve away from his nose.

“You’re going?” he gaped. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. What’d you want me to do? _Grovel?”_

Sherlock’s skin bunched around his eyes in a pained stare. 

He spoke softly. “Okay.”

He slipped the tags over his neck and held them out for John. There was just the slightest tremor in his hand. 

That asshole. He _really_ thought he’d take them.

John rubbed his brow and shook his head. “I thought you knew me, Sherlock Holmes.”

John whipped the pair of fuzzy handcuffs out of his back pocket and slapped them over Sherlock’s wrist. He put a knee in the boy's back and fought for his other hand. They broke a chair in the struggle, but before it was over John had him cuffed at his back to a radiator pipe sticking out of the floor. Maybe that’d hold him.

“What the hell are you doing?!” cried Sherlock.

John gagged him with a strip he ripped off the bed cloth. 

“Making June Carter Cash proud.”

John searched all of the usual places. Under wardrobes. Under squeaky floorboards. Hell, he even tapped for hollows in the wall and _found_ one. He overturned flowerpots and looked under the caps of bathroom cleaner. He found a gram in Sherlock’s shoe. 

“Really?” John crossed his arms. “Where’s Frank? Retired to the Bahamas yet?”

He could hear Sherlock grinding his teeth. He was sure whatever insults he was spewing were scathing, but the gag left them to his imagination. 

John took up Sherlock’s mobile and sent a series of texts before pocketing it. 

“When this is over, I’ll leave you alone, but I’m not going anywhere until I know I’ve given sobering your ass my best shot.”

That night, John waited for Frank in the garden. 

“If it isn’t Tinkerbell,” he sneered when he jumped the fence. “You look pissed. What’s the matter? Gonna cry because you’re not his habit anymore, or are you looking to get your fix too?”

Frank pulled out a switchblade.

“You can't stand between me and my bottom line, Watson. Your poof boyfriend’s got a new lover now.” He dangled a bag of coke from his fingers.

John stood unfazed with his hands in his hoodie pockets. 

“Maybe I can’t,” he deadpanned, “but he can.”

Frank turned just in time to catch the butt of Coach Goalla’s rifle slamming into his face. Coach kicked away the switchblade. 

“Nice knife,” he said, jerking his chin toward the koi pond where it landed.

John, unimpressed, gathered Frank by the coat collar. 

“Did you call the police?”

Coach racked his gun and fired buckshot twice into the air. 

“They’re on their way.”

John anchored his hand on his hip.

“You don’t have a permit for that, do you?”

“Nope.”

“... wanna plant it on Frank and buy a new one with whatever money we pick out of his pockets?”

“Oh, _hell_ yeah.”

While Coach was wiping his prints and setting it up to look like a robbery, John took Frank by his long, hippy hair and drug him up the stairs. He tied him to a chair and balanced it over the edge of the balcony. Sherlock gave John a look like he thought the boy had gone deranged. He wasn’t, of course.

John was well past deranged. 

“Tell me who your suppliers are, Frank.”

The man withered in his chair.

“You’re a bloody psychopath! I can’t tell you! They’ll kill me.”

“They will?” asked John, like he was really surprised about it. “Let me know if you change your mind on the way down.”

And he let him drop, right on top of Coach’s bins. 

John stomped down the stairs skipping every other step and dragged the boy up by the chair leg that wasn’t broken, letting his head whack against the steps on the way.

“Let’s try this again,” said John, hiking his leg on one side of Frank as he dangled once more over the edge. “Who. Are. Your. Suppliers.”

_______________________________________________________________________

“Tell me, John,” said Mycroft thirty minutes later when he’d arrived with the police. “How many times did he fall off the balcony?”

“It’s hard to say, Myc,” said John. “I lost count.”

John held out a scrap piece of paper. “Here’s everything he told me. People he sells to who’ll need rehab. Suppliers out of West London and Swindon. Anything you need to know.”

Mycroft accepted it, obliged. “You can’t keep him handcuffed upstairs forever.”

“I know,” said John. “Cold sweats and shakes. That’s what I’m waiting for.”

And the cold sweats did come. Someone was always with Sherlock, whether it be an unlucky agent, Molly, or Greg. John was with him the most though. When he came home limping after a match or when he ran the village streets until he couldn’t walk. The team suffered a little, as Sherlock was refusing to help them, but by then they’d figured out their positions and had picked up a few deduction tricks of their own. 

“Look how number eight carries himself,” said Mike.

“Dragging the left leg a bit?”

“Yep?” 

“Injured in a maul?”

“Most likely.”

Greg smirked. “Let’s eat these guys alive.”

Coach, though worried about Sherlock and concerned about the number of agents in his home, had never been in higher spirits. Any time Stephen didn’t spend with Molly, he spent with his dad. He seemed to forget about the threat looming over his head, but to be fair, John did too. He didn’t have room to care about getting knocked off. 

“You’re worse than a sociopath!” Sherlock screamed at him that night. 

John ripped his headphones off, looking at Sherlock through the fingerprint smudged bulletproof glass that the agents had installed down the center of the room. He’d ripped up floorboards and had peeled off wallpaper, but Mycroft would cover that. No doubt Coach would have a better home after Sherlock left than before he arrived.

“You think I don’t know everything I’m doing is mental?” said John softly. “No one’s more aware of how psychotic this is than me.”

John didn’t scream anymore. His vocal cords couldn’t take it, and neither could his nerves. To be honest, he sounded more intimidating this way, like a villain. 

Maybe Sherlock needed a villain.

“This is fucking abuse, John.”

He shrugged and lit a cigarette. “Maybe for an ordinary person.”

Sherlock narrowed his stance. He grimaced. “What are you doing?”

“Smoking. I found them in your violin.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Those things will kill you.”

John laughed. For the first time since this whole rotten debacle began, he laughed. He laughed so hard he thought he’d piss himself. Molly had made him watch a chick-flick, a movie called _Diary of a Mad Black Woman,_ and God help him, he felt like Helen after the breakdown.

The whole thing was too hilarious not to laugh at.

“Hypocrite,” he smiled, taking a drag. He inwardly hated himself for taking up smoking, but the nicotine was like a balm over his frayed nerves. Anthea had told him that she smoked for similar reasons. 

_“You never cut loose from an addict without a few bad habits of your own,”_ she’d said. 

He’d quit after he smoked the last of Sherlock’s pack, he’d told her. 

_“No you won’t,”_ Anthea had replied. _“Quit while you’re ahead, kid. That’s the best advice I’ve got.”_

That’s what his days became. Go to class. Play rugby. Go to Coach’s. Take abuse. Sleep in the dorm. His life was like a skipping record on repeat. The only difference came the day John showed up at the house without his ring.

“You’re not wearing your ring. Where’s your ring?” 

Sherlock caught that it was missing the second John stepped through the door. At least he was still paying attention to him. John worried that Sherlock’s consciousness had died in his mind palace three days ago after he started giving John the silent treatment.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Where is it.”

Not a question, just a demand. That’s what had become of them. 

“I sent it to Mycroft,” said John. “He’ll sell it and deposit the money back into your account. If you want to use it to buy drugs when this is over, that’s your prerogative.”

Sherlock blew a harsh breath that rattled his lips. His eyes grew cold and remorseless. Finally, he exploded, throwing himself against the glass. “Who gave you the right?”

John looked down at his father’s dog tags hanging around his neck. He squeezed his fingers around them. “You once said that I thought that I could fix everything. You were right. I didn’t know what I was getting into with you.” He looked up. “I can’t fix this, Sherlock. Our friendship together was always more important to me than if we worked as lovers.”

“Which we obviously _don’t.”_

“Yeah,” John nodded. “Which we obviously don’t.”

Sherlock’s face went lax and pale, but his tight, furious expression was back so quickly that John was sure that he’d only imagined the shock.

In the beginning, John truly believed that Sherlock broke up with him to keep him safe, but between all of the withdrawal fueled insults that he had to drown out with his headphones as he did his homework and all of the tears that he’d failed to hide, he began to accept that Sherlock didn’t want him. His heart broke so often he almost didn’t feel it anymore. 

Almost. 

“Why are you doing this?” asked Sherlock.

“Why are you?”

John dragged out the last of his cigarette and exhaled. He went to stand on the edge of the balcony and looked down at the other houses and businesses hugging the curve in the road. 

He couldn’t do this anymore. 

It was killing _him._

John walked over to the glass panel and scanned his retinas. The door immediately unlocked. He took the remaining cigarettes out of his coat pocket, already planning to go buy some more from the corner shop on the way back, and laid them on the table. 

He turned to Sherlock, who was suddenly standing a breath away _outside_ of the glass cut off. 

He could have touched him if he’d wanted.

“I’m sorry I did this to you,” said John. “I’m sorry that I wasted both of our time.”

Sherlock didn’t break eye contact once.

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

John walked out of the Goalla house slowly, so slowly his feet barely picked up off the ground, so slowly he knew it was because _hope_ tempted him to believe that Sherlock would come running after him.

He didn’t. 

Of course he didn’t. He didn’t want him, and John couldn’t blame him, not because he didn’t see his worth, but because John couldn’t imagine what he could ever say to mend their broken pieces. 

He became listless. He looked ripped as hell, but he’d lost so much weight that he was finally beginning to lose muscle mass. It would only be a matter of time.

John stood in the showers. At first, he listened to the boys' conversations, but then a ringing heightened in his ears so that he almost didn’t notice it. He thought perhaps something had happened to cause the boys to stop talking. He turned to look, but when he did, the room swayed and black nipped at the corners of his vision. The last thing he was aware of was the sound of a thunk, and then, pain. 

Molly leaned over him in the san. 

“You’re not eating enough.”

John smiled, weakly. 

Hoops. Good, unwavering Hoops.

“Somehow I feel like I’m on the wrong end of this conversation,” he coughed in a sad attempt at a laugh.

No one else found it humorous. 

“This isn’t romantic, John. This is unhealthy.”

“I know,” he answered. 

An IV fed him in the arm. 

“Is my mum on the way?”

Greg shook his head. “I blocked it. I thought you’d want me to.”

John squeezed his eyes closed. “Good. That’s good. Thank you.”

“John,” said Greg, “we’re sitting you out. You’re not playing until you’re better.”

Maybe it was the IV replenishing his fluids. Maybe it was the heartbreak and worry in his friends’ eyes. Whatever the reason, he burst like a dam. The skin bunched at the corner of his eyes and he couldn’t catch his breath. He kept saying, “I’m sorry.”

Molly held him in her arms. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. You tried.”

“Not about _Sherlock,”_ he said. “About _you._ I worried you, all of you. I’ve… I’ve been feeling _sorry_ for myself. Th-that’s done n-now,” he hiccuped. “I haven’t been there for the rest of you.”

Brett gripped him by the shoulder. “That’s okay, bro. We knew you’d come back.”

That _cut_ him.

How could he do this to his family? Torture them like Sherlock tortured him with worry? With apathy in return for their love and concern? When he left the san, he swore he’d change. He’d be a worthy friend if it took everything he had.

The entire group, the twelve plus Dorian and Mary, went with John to therapy, talking about their own feelings and anxieties. It felt good, like a big-ass support group. It didn’t matter if Sherlock didn’t want him. He still had a family who did, and Sherlock could have it too if only he’d take it.

That’s how Greg Lestrade ended up at the coach’s door. 

He knocked, and Goalla opened.

“Coach,” he nodded.

“Captain,” he nodded back. “You here to see him? He hasn’t left. Hasn’t done a damn thing as far as I can tell. He looks like me after my divorce.”

Greg stepped inside, removing his shoes. “Have you talked to him?”

“Sure, loads,” said Coach. “I’m uniquely qualified, I guess. He doesn’t throw things at me like he does the agents. I think he knows I’d beat his ass if he tried. Keeps saying ‘John’s not a bitch though,’ when I talk about my ex-wife.”

If Greg could have found any humor in the situation he would have laughed. 

“Yeah, they were really joined at the hip.”

“How’s the kid taking it? Fainting was the final straw for me. He looks more and more like shit every time he comes over, but I haven’t seen him in a while. The bench is the only place for him, but it might fuck the season. Still,” he shrugged, “I don’t think they want to sack me anymore. Too dramatic a turn about.”

Greg ran his hands through his hair. Only a single spot remained that wasn’t grey. “He’s getting better.”

Coach opened his mouth to speak.

“He is,” Greg cut. “John’s on the mend. He’s tough. He spent his whole life waiting for someone to love him, but now he finally loves himself. It’s Sherlock we need to worry about catching up.”

Coach shook his head. “I don’t know, Greg. The kid was so cracked out I don’t know if he’ll ever get over it. There’s a reason I don’t allow alcohol in my house, and it isn’t because I hate it.” He glanced at Greg. “It’s because I like it too much.”

He stared at his feet on the carpet. “Maybe if I’d loved my wife and my kids more, Abhitha wouldn’t be so cold and Pratheesh would still be alive. I thought about drinking the night that he died. I thought about it the whole night I was at the police station. If Stephen hadn’t been poisoned, I’d probably be off the wagon right now, and I’ve been on it for twelve years.”

“Coach,” said Greg. “Does it ever get better?”

“Yeah,” said Coach. “It gets better. It’s just slow as hell, probably because you think about it every day.”

Greg stared at the family photos hanging across the wall. 

“I’ll talk to him. I’ll… give it my best.”

Coach patted him on the shoulder. “You always do.”

_______________________________________________________________________

John checked his phone for texts and flipped up his hoodie on the way out the door after he’d answered them. 

A charade challenge from Hilary. 

Pub Trivia invites from Molly. 

Eliza asking the group out for the weekend at her family's airfield. 

He knew they were doing it all for him. They’d never been this sociable in their lives. 

He was feeling better after his stint in the san, making lists again and cooking cheap Pinterest meals over the one bunsen burner Sherlock had managed to miss. But what he did most was post sticky notes. He put them everywhere until his room was covered with them. Once he even found a stack in his underwear. Maybe it was a cry for help, but it made him feel better, so whose business was it?

They were a little bit of everything from what he’d learned from his experience with Sherlock to the facts he knew about his friends.

THINGS I KNOW ABOUT MY FRIENDS FAMILY

  * Molly is allergic to citrus fruits. Not deadly, but enough to have a bad night.
  * Ryan is refusing to wash his underwear. He insists the drawers are lucky, but apparently not with Mary, his new girlfriend. And I can’t blame her (much).
  * Lestrade stress eats EVERYTHING and he doesn’t seem to know what he’s eating because Eddy and Eliza switched out his fries with baby carrots and he didn’t notice. Truly a breakthrough in his diet. 
  * Hilary knows taekwondo and has emasculated Brett on no less than six separate occasions. I think he likes it. (Sick Australian bastards.)
  * Mike has started ballet classes with Betty. When he leaps, the ground shakes, but he’s actually pretty good. Like one of the hippos from Fantasia dancing with a field mouse. Most shockingly of all, I think it’s improved his game.



John smiled while he compiled his mental list, so swept up in recalling the funny and positive things about his friends that he didn’t notice when he ran into Mary.

Literally. 

He struggled not to curse when they collided and knocked each other on the ground. John was a gentleman, but this was the fourth time this week, and Mary seemed to get bolder with every strike.

John rubbed his head, which had boinged against the ground like he was a cartoon character.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” John said.

_Really. We do._

He picked himself up and extended a hand to Mary. She gazed up at him with rapt attention, licking her lips. When she took his hand, she wouldn’t let it go. 

“Um, did you hurt yourself?” John asked, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“No.” 

She smiled wide at him and he finally had to jerk his hand away.

“Are you sure? You… don’t seem like yourself.”

“Do I not?” 

She seemed to be laughing at some inside joke, but it was only the two of them, and he didn’t get it.

 _Actually,_ John wanted to say, _you’re acting a little inappropriate for my mate's girl, but whatever._

Mary hadn’t done anything wrong. Not once on the multiple occasions when she’d slipped, or had lost an earring and needed help finding it, or when Ryan needed to study but somehow it was okay for John to walk her back to Aiken House. She never did anything wrong. John made sure of that.

“So,” John cleared his throat, “I guess you and I are headed in different directions, so I’ll be off then.”

But Mary followed him. “How are you doing? You’re looking better than the last time I saw you.”

“Since yesterday? Um, thanks?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. You seemed depressed, but you seem happy to see me. I’m sorry you didn’t feel comfortable enough to let me sit in on the rest of the therapy sessions with all of you. But I get it. Thank you for helping me up. Clumsy.”

 _I’ll bet you’re not,_ John thought.

“I don’t really talk about my depression outside of Gloria’s, Mary, and I don’t joke about it either.”

“I’m not joking,” said Mary. “I’m being serious.”

She stopped him, taking his hand again. 

“John, you and I are friends, aren’t we?”

He didn’t answer straight away, but instead slipped both of his hands into his hoodie pouch. 

“I’ve got trust issues, Mary. If I seem cold, just give me time. I don’t… automatically warm up.”

He knew it sounded pathetic, a cheap dodge to the question, but he hated lying. 

Mary was undeterred, smiling wider than ever. “So you mean that you’ll give me the chance?”

Mary had seemed so cool at first, like a funny and supportive friend, but in the recent weeks her thirsty personality reminded John of Kitty Riley, but subtle. Or, most recently, that moment to be specific, like a meme from Napoleon Dynamite.

“Listen, you’re my friend’s girlfriend—”

“Is that all that’s holding you back?”

John froze. 

“What do you mean 'that’s all?’ Ryan is an amazing person.”

“An amazing person who’d understand,” mewled Mary, inching her way ever closer to John’s lips. 

He stepped back just in time to dodge her.

“Mary,” said John. “I think that you need to go be with Ryan _right now._ ”

Mary paused, looking crushed. “Are you gonna tell him?”

John didn’t know. When she was with Ryan, she gave the impression that she really loved him, and he was so happy. He wouldn’t believe John even if he said anything.

John wouldn’t have believed anybody if they’d warned him about Sherlock.

“Only if it happens again,” said John. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m not interested. Not in anyone.”

“Not in anyone but Sherlock Holmes?” she bit at him the moment he turned his back. 

And there it was, the reason John booted her out of group therapy.

“He didn’t choose you. He doesn’t love you.” 

She ran in front of him. 

“No one ever chose me, either, but we can. We can choose each other.” 

She had the nerve to try to _touch his face._

“Enough, Mary!” 

The time, he pushed _her_ to the ground.

She trembled, whispering, “Why don’t you love me, John?”

He could have given her a million reasons, some of them cruel, but John wasn’t that kind of guy. He crouched down to speak in her ear, but far enough she couldn’t lunge at him if she got the wrong idea. 

“Because I don’t go for girls who want to cheat on my friends with me.”

John stalked away, becoming more and more irate with every step. He’d been on track to a great morning, but that was shot now. He pulled out his phone and called his mum. It rang several times before she picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey!” said John, breathless. “Do you have a minute?”

He heard dishes clattering in the background and the sound of Harry and Clara arguing. “Sure,” said Cynthia. “What’s wrong? Are you in trouble?”

John rolled his eyes. “I don’t call only when I’m in trouble, Mum.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He bit his lip. 

_Steady, Watson._

“Listen, I know it’s tomorrow, but the last match before Christmas is coming up, and I was wondering if you, Harry, and Uncle James were coming. My coach handed us this flyer saying that the annual staff wants to take pictures of the athletes with their families for Christmas. I could work while I’m home on holiday and pay for it. Uncle James used to play rugby for this school, did you know that? Even if you can’t make it, would you invite him?”

Cynthia groaned and asked for Harry to hand her soap. “Your allowance doesn’t come from nowhere, John. You know that I’m too busy to go. Harry has a job here and the band to manage. I doubt either of us could make it. As for James, I don’t think he’d be interested.”

“Couldn’t you at least ask?” said John. “He was a big deal here when he was a student.”

“Well, he’s not now,” said Cynthia. “He didn’t even let me tour the school when we dropped you off because some bloke from one of those families that sued him was standing in the window eyeballing you. He was afraid that if people saw the two of you together then you’d have a bad time at Conan.”

John stilled. 

_I saw you getting out of a car with him on your first day. Is he your dad?_

“Oh, shit!”

“John, language!”

“Mum, I’ve gotta go,” he said. 

“Now don’t be like that.”

“No, Mum, I’ve _got to go!_ Give Harry my love!”

John hung up the phone and dialed Uncle James as fast as he could.

* * *

Greg knocked on the door. He heard a scurrying on the other side like a rat in a wall. It was midday. Sherlock was bound to be awake. Hell, with all the withdrawal symptoms kicking his ass, he barely slept at all unless John administered a sedative via a gas in the glass box, and that’d been removed. 

“For the last time, Coach,” moaned Sherlock. “I don’t want to eat _,_ and if I did, it wouldn’t be vegetarian!”

“Sherlock, it’s me.”

The other side of the door fell silent. 

“If you don’t want to talk to us anymore, that’s fine,” said Greg, shifting on his sock-clad feet. “But we consider you family and we love you. Things don’t have to be weird because of… you know.”

He heard Sherlock breathing. He must’ve been close.

The door unlocked. Greg took the knob, hesitant about going in after the last time when Sherlock had called him every nasty name in the book from _snitch_ to _motherfucker._ No wonder John had suffered so. 

_John,_ thought Greg. _That’s why you’re here._

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Obviously,” droned Sherlock. 

Greg walked into the room. The glass wall was gone and Sherlock was, by all accounts, a free man. So why hadn’t he left? 

“Still working on the case.”

“Hardly,” scoffed Sherlock. “I can’t find a connection. I failed you. Big surprise there.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Greg, his head cocked to the side. “Don’t get me wrong. You definitely failed John, but you don’t have a history of owning up to your mistakes or thinking lowly of yourself.”

Greg was baiting him, he knew, talking about _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,_ but to hell with it. Sherlock had some payback coming. 

_Don’t lose your cool, Lestrade. Take it easy._

Ah, fuck it.

“Mycroft,” Greg spat. “That’s the second time that man shagged me and dropped out of my life the next morning, but at least he’s _honest_ about it. Why’d you have to do the same thing to John, hmm? Why’d you have to break up with him in that shitty ass letter?”

 _What are you doing?_ the rational part of Greg’s brain cried, but he was on a roll. Truly a roasting that any French mother would be proud of. He paced the room, aware Sherlock could punch him now, but in a fighting mood.

“Tell me the truth! God, for once during this whole shit-fest just tell someone the truth, dammit! I’m not wearing a wire.” 

He peeled his shirt off.

“I’m not gonna tell John, or _Mycroft_ , or anyone else who cares about you and deserves to know what’s going on in that messed up brain of yours, but can’t you, at least for yourself, admit why you’re self-destructing on everyone you love?”

Greg’s chest was heaving. He stood before him with his fist clenched at his naked sides. 

_Screw Mycroft. Screw stress eating. AND SCREW SHERLOCK._

Sherlock didn’t react. He didn’t flinch. Not until Greg pulled a ring out of his pocket.

Sherlock’s breath hitched. “Where did you get that?”

“John lost it in the bathroom,” said Greg, jerking it away when Sherlock moved to take it. “Cried like a bitch for an hour. I was gonna give it back to him, but by then he’d pulled himself together and told me that he’d lied to you about it.”

Greg shrugged. “I guess you two do that now, right? Lie to each other? Do you know that’s one of the first things he said to me after you two broke up? ‘Sherlock doesn’t lie to me?’”

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave the ring.

“He didn’t… give it away?”

“Christ, no,” said Greg. “But why do you care? You’re the one that’s torturing him. The only thing that could be worse is if you were dead, but at least then he could remember you _fondly._ ”

Greg leaned against the western wall. He eyed one of Sherlock’s cigarettes and lit up.

“Geez, do _all_ of you smoke now?”

“Of course we bloody smoke!” screamed Greg. “We’re stressed. You’re _killing us!_ John and I both from smoking and stress and me specifically for what’ll turn out as congestive heart failure! _”_

Greg leaned back, breathless and choking on a puff of smoke. He’d gained six pounds since this whole crapstorm started and he was _still_ packing it on.

“Stephen and Molly are at each other’s throats. Ryan’s dating a floozy who’s after John, and she’s freaking him out after we just got him in a healthy state of mind! We had to feed him through an IV and then _Mary_ drags around acting like Florence Bloody Nightingale!”

Sherlock jolted to his feet. “John’s sick?”

Greg inhaled half the air in the room for what was bound to be his most epic rant yet, but gave it up. He exhaled.

There was no point yelling at Sherlock. He had enough people yelling at him.

“Why’d you do it, Holmes? If everything you wrote him is legit, then just say so and I’ll let it go. But if you did this because you think that we’re all safer without you, happier or some bullshit, we aren’t.”

Greg dug in his messenger bag and threw down more photos.

“Mycroft’s trying to figure out where they’re coming from, but we keep finding them in weird places. John felt this one in his pillow last week.”

Sherlock picked the picture up off the floor.

It was a picture of John strutting around the field with his middle fingers raised. Another one was of him walking Mary into Aiken House, but looking miffed about it with his shoulders hunched and angled away from her. 

“Flip over the angry picture,” said Greg, and he did. 

Scrawled on the back, it read _WANT US TO MAIL YOU HIS FINGERS, SHERLOCK?_

He fisted the picture, shaking. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“I’m telling you now. They’re coming for him. With or without you.”

He sighed, taking in the trashed bedroom.

Had Coach seen this?

“He’s not scared, you know. He wants it. The only fight John ever backed down from was you.” Greg rubbed out his cigarette. “Was the letter for real, Sherlock?”

He slammed the picture into the wall with both fists before knifing it. 

“Of course it wasn’t bloody for real!”

Greg, seeing that this could be a long morning, lit up another cigarette and said with the last good breath his lungs could afford him, “THEN WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, SHERLOCK HOLMES?”

Sherlock looked more scared of Greg than Greg was of him, and Sherlock was the one wielding a switchblade.

“I thought,” he looked like he was going to vomit, “that it would keep him safe! Why would someone want the Goallas and John at the same time? They didn’t even know each other! Their parents didn’t even know each other! There is no connection! I thought if I was gone, then at least John would be safe and I could work out why Pratheesh was killed.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

Sherlock slumped on the bed. His face blanked. He talked like he was a machine. 

“You can’t imagine how hard it’s been having to look at him every day and tell him that I don’t care. That I don’t _want_ him. And he believes it.”

“He didn’t always. You drove that home.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, turning towards the window. 

“How do I fix this, Greg?”

“Sometimes you don’t,” he shrugged. “Coach lost his wife, his kids, and his multimillion-dollar family business. Gave it all up to Stephen’s mother twelve years ago. He’s just now rebuilding his life and he’s _still_ got a crackhead living in his spare room.”

Sherlock rolled spread eagle on his bed. 

“I left the greatest human being on the face of the planet, treated him like shit, disappointed him with drugs, and he’s still in danger?”

He rolled over and screamed face-first into the mattress.

He rolled over again, but this time with a thunk to the floor. 

“You bastards better take it easy on my hardwood!” Coach called up the stairs. 

“We are!” Greg called back, then he went to lean over Sherlock. 

“Pull yourself together, Holmes. This is no way to behave.” 

He drew him up by the shoulders. 

“You’ve got your whole life to give yourself brain damage and wallow in a sty of your own self-pity! You had plenty to say about us while we sobered your ass, so now it’s our turn.”

Greg pulled out an envelope and shoved it on Sherlock’s chest.

“Here. We wrote this in therapy, for you. Not that you’ll appreciate it.”

Greg took up his messenger bag and stalked out the door. 

“We love you, Sherlock. It’s time to come home.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Jonathan Small walked into the annual office. They were almost at semester and he needed to get the sports pages done. He had graduate portraits and quotes to pull together. He had forms to email and ads to push for rich parents to write blank checks for. He’d worked his whole career at Conan for a chance to run the annual staff, and now that he was at the top, the other staffers and photographers gossiped that he was losing his edge.

If only they knew.

He flicked on the lights. 

“You lied to me.”

Jonathan twisted. His hand flew over his throat in surprise. 

“Not that I’m not used to it,” shrugged the boy in the hoodie. He stood with his back to him, studying the photographs on the wall. 

“This is your mum, isn’t it?” he asked, stepping aside to reveal the framed pictures of past staffers. The photo the boy was looking at was the only dusted one on the wall. Jonathan always took care of it. It came from 1984, the year his mum had graduated. She’d been the boss too, the lead photographer as well before she went on to become a photojournalist. Rachel Barnaby was beautiful, a bombshell blonde with a Kodak smile and an iconic 1980s side-shaved haircut. 

“My adopted uncle says that she was a year eight when he graduated.”

John Watson turned, dropping the hood. “But you already know all that, don’t you? In detention, you said that you didn’t know James Sholto’s name, that you only remembered his face from working here, but that can’t be true because your father was one of the men that sued him. You blame him for your mother’s death.”

Jonathan shook.

“What do you want?” he demanded. “Coming in here taunting me? You might not be Sholto’s blood, but you’re just like him!”

John Watson ignored him. “You were disappointed when I didn’t join the rugby team. Why?”

John ripped a flyer out of his hoodie pocket. It was the one Jonathan had asked the coaches to hand out for the yearbook, an invitation for families to attend the last game before Christmas.

“I can’t prove you had shit to do with Pratheesh Goalla’s death. I don’t know how that ties in, but if I got this far on what I know, imagine how fast Sherlock will work it out.”

John smirked. “Sholto has nerve damage in his back. They used that to exonerate him at his court-martial, so you would have known. You were too young, I’ll bet, but your dad told you. I bet he talks about it all the time, the man who took your mum away.”

“Stop it.” Jonathan clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails sank into his palms. 

“You used Agatha Bell as a guinea pig, and out of sentiment, which I’m told is a chemical defect, you tested it disguised as a young Rachel Barnaby. I’m not sure how you knifed her, but however you did it, she didn’t feel it. I’ll also bet you’re the one stalking us.”

John threw down the photo negative he’d found looped around the rugby post at the far end of the pitch.

“Admit it, Small. You’re a killer as well as a shit photographer. You’re going after me so you can get a stab at James Sholto.”

Jonathan panicked. He had to get in touch with Jim or Mary. They’d know what to do. They’d helped him out of the Bell mess the first time. If he could just contact them again. He reached for his phone in his back pocket.

“You think you’re real clever, don’t you, Watson?” sneered Jonathan.

John ticked his head, a hotshot grin plucking at the corner of his mouth and his brow. “I like to think my ex would be pretty impressed, yeah.”

Then Watson’s stance became unshakable, his face solemn. “It’s over. Give up already. The police will go easier on you if you do.”

But Jonathan wasn’t backing down. He couldn’t overpower Watson, but he could lead him into a trap. 

He was Sherlock Holmes’s trained bloodhound, after all. He’d chase anything. 

Jonathan made a break for the outside, John hot on his heels. He couldn’t outrun the boy long. 

_Where is no one in the winter?_

The outdoors was too open. The training center too likely to be populated with Watson’s friends. But the heater in the aquatic center was broken. 

He made for the pool, bursting through the doors. Maybe he could overpower Watson himself if he could just—

Jonathan’s trainers slipped across the wet tile and he slammed on his knee before rolling into the pool. Watson was after him, landing a punch square in his jaw as each struggled to drown the other. Watson wasn’t a great swimmer, apparently. Jonathan had the edge. He kicked off his trainers and elbowed Watson in the nose while treading water. Watson reciprocated by slamming his forehead into Jonathan’s nose. Jonathan wrapped his hands around John’s throat and pushing him under. 

“Enough.” Mary Morstan stood calmly above Jonathan at the edge of the pool.

When he didn’t let up, she pulled out a gun. 

“I said,” repeated Mary, “Enough.”

“He knows, Mary,” said Jonathan, swimming away from Watson who just had enough of his senses about him to realize that Mary was holding a gun on both of them.

“Good,” she said. “By now Sholto knows too much. We’ll have to make a hostage video with this prat in it, get him to show up to the game. Sholto won’t play your game unless you show some teeth. You’ll never get the other Goallas if you arouse suspicion by killing John Watson now. My client wants him alive.”

“You mean _you_ do,” said Jonathan. “I know the promises she made you and Moriarty.”

“Get out of the pool, Jonathan.”

She jerked her gun. 

“And you,” she said to John. “We only want the Goallas and Sholto. Unless you make every move we tell you, say every line we feed you, we’ll kill every last one of your precious Thirteen. Not Sherlock, I suppose, but I hope you kissed him goodbye anyway.”

Mary ripped John out of the pool by his throat, holding the barrel to his temple. 

“I hear you’ve had him in a cage. Good. Then he’ll be ready for the one Eurus has waiting for him.”


	36. System Override: Say Hello to the Virus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long. The snow finally melted and my two-week break from school came to a sad end. 
> 
> Anyway, please let me know I'm not screwing this up (Or am I? Which is better for me to hear?)  
> *chews fingernails like a savage. 
> 
> #the fic is on

“Come on, come on,” Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. 

Not-Real Mycroft flickered in and out. His holographic form held for a single moment, long enough for him to ask, “Yes, Brother Mine?” before the whole system fritzed, and Sherlock was left standing in an infinite white room with no walls or ceiling. 

“Caring isn’t a disadvantage. It’s a fucking virus!” he growled, kicking at nothing because his hard drive was too fired to hallucinate so much as a discarded soda can.

It was no use.

He surfaced out of his mind palace and woke to the cold world and the sound of passing cars. The curtains waved like a battered flag against the incoming storm gales. Sherlock never shut the door to the balcony anymore. Something about the gloomy atmosphere above the earth reminded him of a lighthouse, like the isolated one off the coast of Sussex where his grandparents had lived.

He rolled off the bed and stepped outside for a smoke. The lighter flame took after the fifth strike, though he had to cup it with his hands. After all that trouble, he didn’t even take a drag. He lowered the cigarette from his lips and let it burn held between his fingers, the ashes crumbling into the wind. 

John had  _ always  _ disapproved of smoking, now he bought a pack from the corner convenience store twice a week with his limited funds. What did that say about his once bright and determined state of mind? What if John didn’t stop smoking? What if he got cancer? Sherlock looked down at the embers shriveling the cigarette, then crushed it under his bare foot.

He slammed his fists on the balcony railing and the metallic sound sent the rats scurrying from the overturned rubbish bins below. It’d been thirteen days since John’s mafia-inspired interrogation tactics, but neither Coach nor Sherlock ever got around to hammering out the dents. 

His breath clouded in the cool morning air, shallow and shaky. 

The photograph of John hung suspended by a switchblade on the wall behind him. John  _ looked  _ healthy, but he was too thin. Why wasn’t he eating? John had reminded him to eat at least ten times a day, and that was just when Sherlock was actively listening.

What had he done?

A murderer had snuck into John’s room and had left threatening pictures in his pillowcase, and the idiot never even deigned to  _ tell him about it? _ Weeks of agony for nothing! If he’d known, he would have dropped this whole damn charade in a second.

After Lestrade’s rant, Sherlock’s chest had tightened and he’d worried that the years of drug use had finally done their worst, that his heart had finally succumbed to arrhythmia, but Mycroft’s doctors assured him that he was only experiencing an anxiety attack.

“Only!” Sherlock had shouted. “You mean this is how John feels  _ all the time?!” _

“Only when he’s under strain,” the doctor had replied.

At that, he’d raced to the toilet and puked.

For weeks he’d done nothing but insult, mock, belittle, and otherwise verbally throttle the one human being he adored beyond reason. He’d told John that he didn’t love him, that it’d been a lie, that he was  _ boring.  _ The height of insults! Strain didn’t even begin to cover it.

Sherlock’s fingers gripped the icy railing as he came to a crossroads in his mind:

Go find John and beg on his knees for forgiveness, or continue on the present course.

He weighed the benefits of each.

What if John was better off without him? He’d left, and Molly swore that he was doing better, that he looked healthy. Sherlock wasn’t selfish enough to want to mess that up. But what if something happened to John? He’d die thinking that Sherlock didn’t love him. 

Sherlock snarled and stormed away from the balcony. 

John wouldn’t  _ die.  _ He’d never allow it!

He kept making for the door and then turning for the balcony at the last minute until it became an outright pace. He must’ve burned through eighteen cigarettes and didn’t smoke a one.

The envelope on the desk seemed to grow bigger with every step, more menacing.

What the hell would his friends have written him? Were they still his friends? He had serious doubts about Lestrade. Even Molly didn’t talk to him quite so much as glower menacingly with her arms crossed. When Sherlock had pointed this out, she’d threatened to gut him with his own coke spoon. John long ago had joked about “Catholic guilt.” Sherlock didn’t believe in God, but if Catholic guilt meant some otherworldly being judging the shit out of you for your poor life choices, then Molly Hooper was the Pope.

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Open the envelope, baby. Maybe I said something that’ll help you decide.”

Sherlock dipped his shoulder away and sat on the floor.

“If you really were John, you could  _ tell  _ me what it said, so stop calling yourself  _ ‘I. _ ’ You’re not him! You never will be! You’re the one that got me into this mess!”

“No I’m not,” said Not-Real John. “I told you to enjoy every moment you could with him.”

“And I did!” said Sherlock. “I slept with him, didn’t I? What more did you want?”

Not-Real John swept kicked him in the kidney. 

It felt incredibly real. 

“For you to stay, you berk! I didn’t mean to shag and split! What kind of sociopath does something like that?”

Sherlock raised his hand and Not-Real John whacked him with a pillow. 

He gazed out the window. While the rain held off, the sky was still a bleak grey. It hadn’t changed since John left. None of the weather stations could figure it, except that it’d mean snow if the temperature dropped.

John would hate the snow.

Sherlock hugged his legs to his chest and sighed into his knees. “Why can’t I think clearly? I feel like no matter what I do, I’ll never be okay again, like I’ve lost my abilities.” 

The Goallas. John. They must have  _ something _ in common, but aside from Conan, Sherlock couldn’t see it. Except for Anthea, Mrs. Goalla hadn’t suffered any death threats. Why John and why Stephen? How did it all tie together? If he could just figure that, the case would solve itself.

“Babe,” said Not-Real John, tugging Sherlock’s back to his chest, his warm breath tickling in his black hair. “It was your mind, your dependence on yourself that got you into this mess. You need to listen to your friends, to Gloria, to John. When the two of you were communicating, everything was okay.”

“Yeah, then I went rogue,” scoffed Sherlock. The updraft from passing traffic chilled his arms. “I should have told him what I was planning. If I’d talked to him, none of this would have happened.”

“Maybe,” said Not-Real John. “But it isn’t too late.”

“Wanna bet?”

He felt Not-Real John smile. 

Sherlock turned to ask what was so damn funny, but when he did, Not-Real John wasn’t there. Only the envelope sitting stark against the ruined floors. 

He groaned.  _ “Fine.” _

He mumbled something about it being a new low, whipped even by the version of his ex-boyfriend living rent-free in his mind, but deduced the envelope anyway.

Carefully selected stationary. Brightly colored ink. Obviously written by Molly who had the best script. One lick to seal, though crumpled at the edges like who’d ever been holding it had the habit of fiddling with their hands.

John, of course. 

He weighed it and determined that there were... eight sheets of paper? He squeezed the envelope and felt the outline of a jump drive. Only six sheets of paper then. 

Before he could lose his nerve, he tore off the end and spilled out the contents, reading bits as he went.

_ “Come home. We miss you and love you.” _

_ “I wish your ass would hurry it up and quit this martyr bullshit, mate. Eddy’s eating my Gaytime ice cream pops and hasn’t the balls to confess. If you were here, you could set him straight. We haven't spoken for three days!” _

_ “Dear Sherlock, I’m sorry about all of the threats I made. Stephen and I have been on edge lately and I’m taking at least 10% of that out on you. The other 90% you deserve, but loathe as you are to admit it, you aren’t in your right mind.” _

Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“She can say that again.”

The letters from Brett and Eddy were funny, harkening back to the ghost pepper incident, moving from Mike who told him he’d come so far from the boy that’d helped him win Betty, heartbreaking from Stephen who thanked him again and again for saving him from an abusive mother and giving him a second chance at happiness with his father. No one that thoughtful and loyal a friend could ever be a bad person, Stephen assured. The folded letter from John said nothing, but taped to it he found a dog tag and an old jump drive Sherlock deduced had been John’s since middle school. 

He… was giving back the tag?

Did he dare?

He inserted the jump drive on his laptop and opened the files. He didn’t find any schoolwork, so John must’ve wiped it clean for this very purpose. 

The files were for him?

There were buckets of documents, and he realized that they were uncensored blog posts John had never published, and others songs he’d written during their time together, both as friends and as lovers. The earliest one dated back to John’s second day at the hospital. 

Not all of the songs were about him, but most were. A few were dedicated to Harry and Clara, commending their bravery in a fight he’d never realized was his too. One was dedicated to his father.

_ If you’re a soldier, I can be a soldier too _

_ By the end of this I’ll be strong just like you. _

Oh, John. Didn’t he know how tough he was already?

Sherlock read through the unpublished posts. He laughed at the way John remembered their adventures, always through the lens of a bond film if not rose-colored glasses. He had no idea the planning John had put into Operation: Gemini. Mycroft had been there? He’d bet on them?

It was enough to make him choke. Another person he’d let down. 

He wrote about his memories, about how young and scared he’d been when he’d had his first panic attack. Harry found him. She meant the world to him. She was, as he wrote, “the solid rock” on which his faith in God was built. 

_ “I never once worried that Harry would go to hell because of who she loved,”  _ John wrote.  _ “So why am I worried about that for myself? Maybe it’s not losing heaven I’m afraid of, but that Sherlock won’t love me back. But then, what’s the difference? But is that selfish too? His friendship is what I crave, his smile. He doesn’t smile enough and it breaks my heart to see how little he expects from other people. It’s been two months and he still signs his texts ‘SH.’ As if I wouldn’t save his number? Maybe I should keep my feelings to myself. I don’t want him to lose faith in me too.” _

Sherlock’s hand brushed across his wet cheek. He was startled to find he was crying again. He hadn’t cried at all before John. He’d changed a machine into a man, and Sherlock feared it was irreversible. 

He scrolled through the files until he came upon a lone video, the title  _ Happy Christmas, Sherlock. _

He drew a sharp breath. So this was it, the letter, only John made a point of saying it to his face in the best way that he could. John had his negative traits when they fought, but he was anything but a coward. Petty, but not a coward.

He struck the keypad before he could change his mind and jerked away. The feed played, and John sat on the mattress in their room, the backdrop his many movie posters and framed vinyls. He was holding a guitar that wasn’t his, an acoustic worn and faded in all the places where the oils of someone's hand would have touched it. Secondhand, nothing a Conan student would have bought him. Sherlock deduced that it was an early gift from Harry.

She must have thought he needed it.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John smiled weakly into the camera. His throat bobbed, and the way he spoke gave Sherlock the impression that he’d filmed this section of the video at least a dozen times. Whatever he was trying to say, it wasn’t easy for him.

His lips parted, then froze. His tongue lifted to touch the back of his teeth, then suddenly, true to Watsonian form, he dropped it to form the phrase, “Fuck it.”

John abandoned the pretense. “Sherlock Holmes, I am  _ so angry with you. _ I’m so mad at you I can’t  _ stand it _ . I’m supposed to say something positive and uplifting, but how the hell am I supposed to say more than I’ve done?”

John rubbed his fingers up and down the metal strings manically like he always did when agitated. 

“I dropped a drug dealer from a window for you. I dabbed the sweat from your face with a wet cloth while you cursed my name, my mother, my sister, and the priest who served me at my first communion! You are the meanest, most insensitive son of a bitch I’ve ever met, but…”

Sherlock watched all the anger bleed out of John’s shoulders. He made the same face did when debating what movie to watch, all serious and foreboding.

“I love you,” he finally said. “Maybe somewhere deep in your twisted consciousness you think that you did the right thing, and maybe you did, but I’ll never agree with it.” 

He strummed a somber note on the guitar, picking absentmindedly as he got his thoughts together. It was clear he’d gone off script, but that was better. 

Not empty words, just him.

“Me loving you won’t change, but maybe the way I love you can.”

Sherlock felt something splinter in his chest. 

“Please don’t give up on yourself.” 

John placed his hand near the screen. Sherlock could swear he felt it touch his face. 

“Don’t quit on getting  _ better. _ You can. I couldn’t stay and fight for you anymore, not because I couldn’t take it and not even because it wasn’t healthy for me. Whatever it is inside you that makes you feel like you need what a syringe can give, it’s your demon to defeat. And I know you can. You made me a stronger person. Now you need to give that same strength to yourself and let people  _ help _ you. We’re here for you, Sherlock.”

He held up a picture of them and their friends. He had his arm around John’s waist as they lounged in front of the fireplace in the Baker Hall common room.

“We’re all still here.”

John set the photo down off-screen and positioned his hands on the guitar. He released a shaky breath and began singing, forming a gentle riff, the sound falling between hopeful and devastating. Somehow it fit him perfectly. 

_ I didn’t have such high expectations _

_ Until I met you. _

_ I didn’t know how it felt to miss someone so much _

_ Till you weren’t in a room. _

_ I never cared about Tchaikovsky _

_ Until I saw you on the stage _

_ I never stood beneath a window with an symphony _

_ Till I had you to serenade _

_ I told you I was scared _

_ And you said that it was fine.  _

_ You said I was incredible  _

_ But we both know that’s my line.  _

_ You said that I was fearless  _

_ Though I don't feel it this time. _

_ Take a look inside my heart _

_ I swear you’re still the better part. _

  
  


Sherlock’s chest didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

The song continued into the second verse, John’s body swaying naturally with the music. All signs of nervousness gone in the one medium where he felt truly at home. He was capable of incredible musical feats, of speed-picking through classics, but for this song, Sherlock’s song, he seemed to focus solely on the words, and on the feelings and the memories that had inspired them.

_ I never fought with anyone  _

_ The way I sometimes fight with you. _

_ We’re just two different people  _

_ And we’ve got our separate issues. _

_ But even when I’ve said a million things  _

_ That we both I didn’t mean  _

_ And I’ve told you that  _

_ I’ve had enough,  _

_ I know I’m still gonna love you  _

_ When the sun  _

_ comes _

_ up. _

_ And I know that we are over  _

_ But they tell me that it's fine. _

_ Guess my heart still needs the message  _

_ Getting lost inside my mind. _

_ I know that you’ve got demons  _

_ And you know that I’ve got mine. _

_ Take a look inside my heart _

_ I swear you’re still the better part. _

John played the final verse twice, the notes becoming heavier each time, till at last he backed off and they fell like the gentle ring of a slowing music box. The last note faded into the speaker. For a moment Sherlock worried it was the end of the video, but then John put his guitar down.

What was he doing? John treated the Martin like a security blanket. He practically slept with it when he was nervous about a test. Though this was a different guitar, it didn’t make sense for him to put it down.

He didn’t even hold his arms in front of him. His body language was relaxed and open.

“Sentiment,” he said with a slight grin, “is a chemical defect. If you’re not coming back because of me, I can change. You hurt me really bad, so I can’t promise we’ll go back to the way we were before, and I definitely won’t turn a blind eye to your drug habit, but we can work it out. We can be friends again. You still have a family here, Sherlock.” 

John took one of the dog tags from around his neck and dangled it in front of the camera, the same nicked one Sherlock now held in his hand. 

“Come home,” he said, and then, “For the record,  _ that’s _ how you write a dear John letter.”

He turned off the camera with a middle finger, but with a smile that said one thing:

_ Forgiveness. _

“He forgives me?” He didn’t even bother with wiping his face now, because one incredible impossibility drowned out all other sensation. 

Sherlock was on his feet bounding down the stairs before he knew what he was about, racing back up only when he realized he was still in his underwear. He quickly changed into his Conan uniform, splashing his face and doing the bare minimum to make himself presentable before calling for Coach.

“Coach!” Sherlock tripped on the bottom step and caught himself on the banister. “For God’s sake,” he cursed, leaping over dishes and takeaway boxes spanning the length of the cluttered house. “Ranbir, where the bloody hell are you!”

Surely he hadn’t left for the match already.

He skidded to a stop at the kitchen table. Coach sat with his coffee untouched looking more pallid than possible in front of the piling bills. His phone hung limply in his hands.

Sherlock scanned him, his own blood pressure rising and falling like a tidal wave. Coach hadn’t looked this shell shocked since news of Pratheesh’s death.

“Something’s happened,” Sherlock said, not in question, but a deduction. 

_ Don’t be too late, don’t be too late, _ he begged the god he didn’t believe in.

Coach held out the phone. It was a video texted to Coach and another number that he didn’t recognize. Sherlock clicked play and was surprised to see John and Stephen tied up and held at gunpoint, but not as surprised as he was to see James Wheatley standing in the foreground. Stephen was darting his eyes about looking for an exit. Meanwhile, John was huffing and puffing in a fit of incensed rage, his jaw flexing as he chewed at the gag. His face was bleeding, no doubt from trouble he’d caused.

The fool. What was he trying to do, get himself killed?

He studied James.

“The both of you already know what this is about, especially considering your  _ lurid  _ history together. No need for a ‘master of deduction.’”

James winked at the camera, scrunching his shoulders and baring his teeth in an anxious smile. His body was shaking in anticipation. Then he was back to business, serious and swaggerful.

“My client feels that you’ve escaped justice for the last time, whatever the hell that means. I myself don’t believe in justice. It’s the most powerful players who get what they want. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And honey, you should see me in a  _ crown. _ ”

James said each word like he was savoring it, his eyes closed and his head sliding side to side. He suddenly skipped over to Stephen, clicking his heels before blasting _Don’t Stop Me Now_ on his iPod and dragging Stephen’s chair across the concrete before flinging it across the edge of the pool. John’s eyes went wide and fixated on the water bubbling where Stephen sank until it didn’t bubble anymore.

“Think of this as a meeting with the devil, and it is  _ long _ overdue!” James sang. “Oh, don’t worry about  _ him _ . He’s fine. Just a little waterlogged. I’m not going to drown him. I’m going to  _ burn  _ him. And John. Just. Like. I. Promised.”

He made an awful face, rolling his body like it pleasured him. This wasn’t the same James Wheatley who’d used Molly to get at him, though the two bore striking similarities. This man was sadistic, his eyes near black.

_ He’s cracked out,  _ Sherlock realized. 

He was also unhinged. Mad as a bag of ferrets. That initial deduction had been correct anyway, if not grossly understated.

What did he mean, “lurid history together?” And how long till they fished Stephen out of the pool? Christ.

“Meet us at the Saxon-Mar courthouse. No one will be there, just you. Well, no one except for Sherlock. You’ll bring him with you, won’t you, Mr. CEO? If you don’t, if he doesn’t shake those MI6 and Secret Service agents tailing him everywhere he goes, then I will  _ incinerate  _ your precious lads till they’re nothing but ashes. That’s all people really are, you know: dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere … in every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people.”

James shifted on his feet like he wanted to pounce. 

“Do make the decent choice. It makes killing you so much easier. I think it goes without saying, talking to the police or darling Mycroft —What a tease he is! — wouldn’t be beneficial for John or Stephen’s health.” He grabbed John by the jaw. “Is this yours, Sherlock? Such a feisty one. I love how he  _ bites.  _ But I suppose I’d understand if you  _ didn’t  _ show. There are other playthings.”

He pulled John’s head back by the hair, leaning to graze his beneath the hollow of his ear. John struggled, his nostrils flaring, but then stilled like he had a knife at his back. 

“Ta-ta, gentlemen,” said James. “Three o’clock, and  _ don’t _ keep me waiting.”

The video ended and Sherlock felt sick. Goddammit, his brain still wasn’t working right! This was no time to short-circuit. John didn’t need the man, he needed the machine. The way Wheatley had  _ touched him. _ He needed to find John and get him out of there straight away.

He tried for the mind palace, but the systems were still offline. Even the white room was gone, engulfed in darkness. He felt his blood pumping in his ears.

_ Calm. Calm down. Panic leaves no room for reason. _

What was it John did when he felt confused like always? 

Lists.

POINT OF INTEREST #1

Coach and the other person who received the message knew each other. Stephen was Coach’s pressure point, so John had to be —

“Sholto!” exclaimed Sherlock. “Mr. CEO? You used to be the head of a weapons manufacturing conglomerate. Sholto was a major in the army. That’s the link! The military, the one thing you both have in common!”

POINT OF INTEREST #2

James Wheatley knew Mycroft. How? Mycroft was his link to the case? That didn’t make any sense. Surely his overprotective older brother would have warned him. 

“Start talking!” Sherlock rounded on Coach. “You mean you  _ knew _ why your son was killed this whole time?”

That snapped Ranbir out of it. He pushed out of his chair and sent it banging into the wall.

“No! I had no idea! That was twelve years ago! I haven’t headed the company in so long, I barely even remembered Sholto!”

“Well, that isn’t good enough! We need to fucking think!”

_ Shotlo, Sholto, who the hell else at Conan knew about Sholto? _

The boy from detention knew Sholto, or at least claimed to only know his face, but his body language and pointed glares at John professed otherwise. How could he have been so blind? If he’d only remembered that after he’d realized that the killer didn’t  _ have _ to live in Kipling Hall

_ Him,  _ Sherlock seethed.  _ That kid is the client Wheatley is talking about. _

“Do you own a pair of pliers?” Sherlock asked.

“A pair of…  _ What?” _ asked Coach, some of the color coming back to his cheeks. 

“Pliers!” 

Sherlock ran to the kitchen and started fumbling around in Coach’s junk drawers. He had several of them, but at last, he located the rusty tools. Sherlock came back, plopped in the kitchen chair, and clamped the tool over one tooth.

“Mycroft planted a chip in my right first molar,” he slurred, his tongue tripping over the metallic taste of the pliers. “He said to shake the agents.” 

He forced Coach’s hand over the handles.

“Pull.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Sherlock rode in the backseat of Coach’s junked-out ‘85 Thunderbird, a large blanket spread over his body and a fistful of cotton balls shoved in his mouth. They’d piled him down with smelly sports gear and gym bags. Coach pulled out of the garage sweating bullets and checking the rearview mirror more than he watched the road, but if MI6 tailed him, he didn’t notice.

“I inherited the company from my father,” he began. “I didn’t understand what I was doing, but that’s no excuse. I was the boss, I should have  _ stopped _ it, should have stopped  _ her _ . She’d gone to law school and was handpicked and trained by my father, so I trusted Abhitha. It wasn’t until the protests against Goalla Group sprang up in Delhi that I started asking questions, that I saw the videos of what we were  _ doing _ . Goalla Group was smuggling arms into Kashmir, a disputed part of India, and distributing them to separatists militants, but that wasn’t enough. Though the media never caught on, Abhitha had established a trade route into a sliver of Afghanistan. How she saw it, supplying both sides only upped our profits and increased the demand. Then the families started coming forward accusing us of butchering their children, and I just couldn’t take it. That’s when I … ”

Coach’s knuckles turned white against the steering wheel.

“I lost custody of my kids, Gorilla Group declared me unfit, and I signed everything over to Abhitha. At least that way my sons could take over someday, could be better men than me.”

His voice broke. 

Sherlock barely lifted his blanket. They weren’t out of the woods yet. 

“Sholto must’ve done you a favor, something linking you to the kid’s family.”

“What kid?” Coach’s tone dropped. “The Small boy? God, I should never have taken a job here, but I was the first one offered. How was I supposed to know he attended Conan?”

“Who?” asked Sherlock, describing the boy. 

Preppy, a fake blonde, chip on his shoulder.

“That’s him,” said Coach. “That’s Jonathan Small. He tried suing me, or his dad did anyway. Couldn't make anything stick. It never even went to trial.”

“Suing you for what for?” asked Sherlock. “What’s his grudge against you?”

He trusted that the radio playing violin recordings upstairs and the dummy he’d built would fool MI6 for hours and sat up, ignoring the throbbing at the gap in his teeth. 

Coach fell silent, such a contrast to his normal boisterous rage that is said more than he could.

“There are lots of journalists in Jammu and Kashmir,” said Coach, “but most of them are natives to the region and the government on both sides tends to shut them down, but the Indian side especially, saying that the Kashmiri journalists are stoking terrorism.”

He was barely watching the road anymore, and Sherlock crawled in the passenger seat and took the wheel.

“But a photojournalist from the UK came sniffing around Abhitha’s stockpiles, found our logo on the sides of crates and artillery. Abhitha had gotten lazy. She didn’t cover her tracks as she should have. I was still the CEO at the time. When she was tipped off about Jonathan’s mother, she … she ordered a hit, and she contacted Sholto to help her do it.”

Sherlock looked down at Coach’s phone in the cupholder. 

There was still one person they could contact who James would think didn’t matter. He even knew where she could find a gun. 

“And what did she ask Sholto to do?” asked Sherlock, texting with his free hand while Coach wasn’t looking. He’d be late for his own game, then Sherlock saw where he’d texted the assistant coach, Dimmock, telling him that he had the flu. 

“Sholto was leading a unit in Afghanistan, about three hundred men. He couldn’t go into Kashmir guns blazing. It would have sparked an international incident, but he could make it a covert operation. He agreed in return for certain benefits for his men, for battles between him and militant forces to, shall we say, go the way he wanted? It’d lead to a promotion.” Coach shrugged. “The Barnaby woman was smart. Hard to find,” Coach said. 

“And her name was Rachel,” Sherlock interrupted. 

“Yeah,” said Coach. “Her name was Rachel.”

_______________________________________________________________________

John felt the gun at his back, but he was confident that Moriarty wouldn’t shoot. They ordered him to exit the van and walk into the stadium, but he refused.

“Even you’re not psycho enough to shoot me when I’m sitting right next to you with a bomb strapped to my chest,” John gritted.

Moriarty pressed his chest to John’s back and pushed the barrel under his chin.

“Try me.”

John didn’t falter, and, to his credit, Stephen didn’t either. Neither of them were restrained, but the point was for them to blend in. They both wore wires, one set for Seb to eavesdrop on their conversations with, and the rest all fed into a makeshift bomb of semtex hidden under their uniforms. They could hear the roar of the stadium echoing the haka along with Lestrade. 

John clenched his shaking fists into the passenger seat. 

“I’m not gonna let you use me to murder all those people, so go ahead. Do it,” John challenged. “At least then you’ll go down with me.”

Mary squirmed in the driver’s seat. “Cars are backing up behind us, Jim.”

Moriarty breathed in John’s ear. “How’s your heart, Johnny? Still beating? Though to be fair to myself, it’s only a matter of time until it stops from an overdose. You know how street drugs can be, cut up with any old poison.”

John knew he wasn’t talking about  _ his  _ heart, but someone else’s, and his breath hitched. 

“You wouldn’t kill him,” John said calmly, though he couldn’t steady his lips. “Eurus wants him alive. Why would you go to all the trouble to help a nobody like Jonathan Small if not to bait Sherlock?”

Moriarty purred. “Oh, I  _ do  _ see why he likes you. A brain to go with that body.”

Jim’s free hand roamed John’s abdomen, settling over his crotch. 

Stephen cringed and Seb pulled him tighter against his own firearm. 

“You’re sick!” 

Stephen spit and his saliva trailed down Moriarty’s temple.

“Thank you,” said Jim, wiping it from the face and then licking it from his palm. “But I’m afraid I don’t have time for a tease, Stevie, even though I’d  _ love  _ to go a couple rounds with you. I’ll bet your beard would feel incredible.”

Cars honked behind them in the line, and Moriarty returned his attention to John.

Jim pulled out his phone and showed John what looked like a live surveillance feed of Sherlock’s room with the boy sprawled out on the bed, the only evidence of his wakefulness the signature prayer pose held tight at his lips. 

“There are perks to having a mole in MI6,” he looked to Mary, “like how she can go anywhere and how Mycroft doesn’t notice. You’ll go into that stadium, John, or we’ll blow Sherlock Holmes sky high.”

Sherlock… was still at Coach’s house? He wasn’t coming for him? 

He felt his heart break all over again.

“Don’t get me wrong, taking Mycroft’s place and running the whole of England sounds fun, but I can do that without Eurus. It’ll just take me longer.”

He bit John’s earlobe. “Be a good boy for daddy and go in the stadium, Johnny, or it won’t just be Sherlock Holmes’ heart that’s black and shriveled.”

Jim leaned away. “What’ll it be? Risking the lives of hundreds of saving the life of the man you love most?”

John knew it should have been an easy pick. One side vastly outweighed the other. He just wasn’t sure which one. 

He looked to Stephen, considering the same, unspoken threat that loomed over Molly. Stephen had overheard Mary discussing a frequency feeding into Aiken House. For all he knew, the bomb was settled under Molly’s bed covered by her many shoes.

Moriarty smirked. “That’s a good boy, John.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You don’t have to,” said Jim. “A moral man wouldn’t hesitate. You’re tainted, poisoned by Sherlock Holmes. You were boring, wasted playing for the side of the angels.”

He pushed John and Stephen out of the van and rolled down the window.

“Welcome to the interesting side.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Coach pulled a pistol out of the glove box and handed it to Sherlock.

“A little gift I bought myself, courtesy of your buddy Frank. Better pack it. At least one of us ought to come out alive.” 

Sherlock checked the magazine and racked the barrel.

The Thunderbird rolled into the courthouse parking lot. It was an ugly, modern building across from a police station. James must have been feeling pretty ballsy unless he knew something Sherlock didn’t, which seemed likely considering the current state.

The glass door was propped open, though no other cars were around and it was the middle of December. 

“This is an obvious trap,” said Sherlock.

Coach studied him. “You ever think about joining the rugby team, Holmes?”

Sherlock, exasperated, said, “What? No, of course not! Why would you ask me something like that at a time like this?” He threw out his arms.

Coach shrugged. “Too bad. A huge missed opportunity.”

“For what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Lestrade’s on his way out this year and we need a new  _ Captain fucking Obvious!” _

Coach slapping him in the head. 

“Don’t sass me with shit I already know! Tell me something I don’t. Jesus!” Coach grumbled as he unbuckled his seatbelt. He pointed his finger at Sherlock’s nose. “For four years we tried to shut you up with your mind-reading magic tricks.”

“They aren’t magic tricks!”

Coach rubbed his closed eyes, shaking his head. “We can quibble what to call it, but the …” Coach fluttered his hand and held the other to his temple, “Mind-reading whatever it is that you do, the seductions, we need those right  _ now!” _

“Deductions!” corrected Sherlock.

“We don’t have  _ time _ for a personal crisis, dammit!” Coach beat his fist into the steering wheel. “My son’s life is on the line, so case this place and gimme something useful!”

“I can’t!”

“Why?”

“Because I—”

And Sherlock suddenly knew. 

_ Caring isn’t an advantage, John, not always because it’s a weakness but because it clouds the mind. If anything happened to you and I allowed myself to care, I would never find who took you away from me. I wouldn’t be able to think straight. Reason, emotion, they’re two contrasting and powerful entities and neither leaves room for the other. _

Land sakes. 

His mouth formed an O. If it was possible, he’d blown his own mind. 

His mind palace wasn’t working because his heart was running the show. All he needed to do was not care, to pretend that he didn’t know John and that this was just another game. He closed his eyes.

“What are you doing?” asked Coach.

“If I’m not out in ten minutes,” he said, “hit me as hard as you can.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Dimmock benched both John and Stephen for being late to the match. Neither protested. In their current state, both agreed it was less hazardous for all involved if they warmed the bench, and when Dimmock took their silence as honest penance and offered to put them back in, they countered that they  _ deserved  _ the bench for such disrespect to his authority. 

Greg overheard and called bullshit straight away.

“Dimmock, really?” he asked. “What’s going on with you two? We were worried sick, now you’re licking that bastard’s bootstraps?”

Stephen and John gave each other the side-eye. If they said one word, Seb would blow the hell out of Reichenbach Stadium and everyone in it.

“We’re sorry, Greg,” said John. “The truth is…”

“We’re hungover!” said Stephen. “Huge binge. All night. Molly. Big Fight.”

Stephen squinted like the sun hurt his eyes even though it wasn’t out. John made an effort to turn green.

Greg wasn’t swallowing it, but he didn’t counter. “This is the biggest and last match for the rest of the year. As your captain and your friend, I’m going to get even with the both of you for this later.”

Dimmock called and Greg reentered the pitch. 

Stephen exhaled. “You weren’t  _ actually  _ gonna tell him, were you?”

“Of course not!” said John. “I just couldn’t think of anything.”

“Couldn’t you have done the leg thing, like you do with Sherlock?” 

“The ‘damn my leg’ bit won’t work unless we  _ play, _ which would be  _ bad.” _

Stephen gulped, whistling the drop of an atomic bomb then making explosion sounds with his mouth. “Kabluey. There goes the try line.”

“And the fronts.”

“And the backs,” said Stephen.

“And a good percentage of the audience, I’m sure.”

John sighed, leaning on his knees as the crowd booed a bad call. 

“So, how’d they nab you?”

Stephen shrugged. “Mary. She said Molly went after you and that there was no time to explain. Next thing I knew I was in the aquatic center with a needle stabbed in my neck.”

He ran his hands through his beard. “You?” he asked. 

“I went after Jonathan alone,” he said. “I guess I was feeling cocky. I wanted to impress Sherlock.”

Stephen watched as the scoreboards lit up and the Badgers cheered. 

“Molly’s got shit taste in blokes. What’s that say about me?”

John went to pat him on the back but thought better of it. The two of them were mini-mushroom clouds waiting to happen. 

“Everyone picks a lemon every now and again.”

“Gee, thanks.”

John rolled his eyes. “Stephen, you know I meant Moriarty.”

His body released a slight tremor at the mention of the man’s name. Neither boy seemed to know what to say.

“Do you think this is it for us?” asked Stephen, looking down at his shoes. “I told Molly not to come to the game. It’s the last decent thing I did after our fight.”

“That’s good,” John nodded. “If you hadn’t fought, then she’d be in the blast zone.”

“She’s still in the blast zone,” said Stephen. “Aiken House, remember?”

John did, but he was hoping Stephen wouldn’t.

“Then why do you think it’s decent you told her to stay away?”

Stephen locked eyes with him.

“Because there’s still a chance. I caught a look at the program when they were wiring us. It’s not like any bomb I’ve ever seen before, but when one of them goes off,” Stephen snapped his fingers, “all of them will.”

John quirked his brow. “Um, you see a lot of bombs, do you?”

“My mum carried Pratheesh and me both on each hip while she ran not only one of the largest weapons manufacturing groups in the world, but also a black-market arms smuggling syndicate, so yes. I’ve seen a lot of bombs.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait, you mean the business between your dad and my uncle is all related to—”

“—illegal munitions smuggling?” shrugged Stephen. “If it is, they’ve got the wrong guy. My dad hasn’t run the Goalla Group in twelve years. I don’t even know where Jonathan ties into all of this.”

“I do,” said John. “Remember Rache? It’s a nickname for Rachel, Jonathan’s mum. She died twelve years ago and he blames Sholto for it.”

Stephen rolled a water bottle in his hands. “My mum always ruled the roost, but my dad was the one who went to trial every time Goalla Group got sued. Sholto was British military, right? I guess they could have gotten tangled up together and anyone watching would have naturally blamed Dad. What happened to Rachel anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said John. “My uncle didn’t even mention Goalla Group. He only said that he was charged with her murder but that the jury acquitted him. Uncle James wasn’t even in Kashmir. He was stationed in Afghanistan. He’d stepped on a mine that same evening and was lucky he wasn’t killed, but it damn near paralyzed him, pretty much ended his military career. All the courts had was circumstantial evidence and a photo of him taken near the border, but even that couldn’t be positively identified. Rachel Barnaby died in a bombing,” John shrugged. “Guess that’s why we’re fitted out.”

Stephen squirmed and fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “I feel like a goddamn suicide bomber.”

“I’m sure that’s what they’ll make it look like,” said John. 

The team was struggling, but holding their own. The match was in a tie. 

“Do you think I’ll see Molly again?” he asked, only John knew he wasn’t talking about this lifetime.

“I don’t know,” said John. “Can Molly be reincarnated even if she’s not a Hindu?”

“The hell if I know. Can Sherlock go to heaven even though he’s not a Christian?”

Touche. 

The stadium roared as the Badgers grounded the ball across the try line. Farnon was doing just fine, even if he was carrying the backs as the senior-most wing. 

“We’re gonna see them again,” John nodded. “I don’t care what my mum says. God’s not that cruel.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Sherlock stood in the stark white room of his mind.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Not-Real Mycroft. Sherlock put him back online the moment he saw reason. 

Pure, cold, dependable reason. 

“I’m sure,” said Sherlock, his posture stiff and his eyes dark. 

“You’ve never recovered anything you’ve deleted from the hard drive before.”

That wasn’t  _ exactly  _ true. Not-Real Mycroft should have known that.

“Good,” said Sherlock. “Keep only information relating to Sholto.”

Sherlock watched as the hologram files closed out one by one. 

_ John’s birthday. _

Delete. 

_ Operation: Gemini. _

Delete.

_ His face when we made love. _

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the x before he dragged that one to the trash as well. 

_ The Hound of the Baskervilles.  _

_ The Red-Headed League.  _

_ A Scandal with Breckenridge. _

Delete, delete, delete. 

“Put up all the blocks you can,” Sherlock commanded. “I remembered Eurus when I shouldn’t have. We can’t allow the same thing to happen with John. Only the barest and most essential of information, understood?”

“Crystal,” nodded Not-Real Mycroft. “But Sherlock, not even a fail-safe?” 

He shook his head. 

“No chances. There’s no point in remembering…  _ Watson _ if he’s dead.”

Sherlock’s throat bobbed. “Do it.”

Not-Real Mycroft swept his hands across the holograms, then everything glowed red and disappeared. His chest felt lighter, number… 

Colder. 

“Wake up now, Brother Mine,” smiled Not-Real Mycroft. “And welcome back.”


	37. Showdown at the Saxon-Mar Courthouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After accidentally WIPING HIS DAMN BRAIN, Sherlock mind-trips himself into a healthy state of mind - while staring down the barrel of Jim Moriarty's gun. 
> 
> Anthea and Molly take the Ducati and come to the menfolk's rescue, but are they running out of time?
> 
> *Warning: Someone gets their head blown off.

Sherlock jolted out of his seat like a man possessed.

“Holy—!” Coach startled. “What the hell was that?”

Sherlock straightened. 

Indian, male. Mid-forties. Variation of accents suggesting he’s lived in England for a long time, possible dual citizenship, native of Southern India. Language, Telugu. Former alcoholic, overcompensates for earlier failures with bravado. Divorced. Serial affairs, no steady relationships. Teaches at a private school, fulfilled in that respect. A fall from an affluent background? Grieving. Smoker.

Smoker? 

Why did that last deduction upset him?

Sherlock shook it off as the systems rebooted. Coach Goalla. He knew Coach Goalla. They lived together. 

He reviewed the data. 

The Goalla-Sholto Case. Two hostages, though Wheatley’s client in question was a seventeen-year-old boy. Why would Wheatley help him? James Wheatley was likely a career criminal, though young himself and using an alias. Was he bored? No, this case took effort, lots of time. Maybe this wasn’t about Small, but about baiting Sherlock. It was common knowledge he couldn’t resist a case, and Wheatley knew Mycroft. 

Sherlock was Mycroft’s only weakness.

He looked at the building. 

“They’re waiting for us in the courtroom, probably so Small can reenact Sholto’s court case. Sentiment on what he feels was a miscarriage of justice in his mother’s murder. The doors are outfitted with metal detectors. He’ll know we have a gun the moment we set foot in the building. You’ll also notice the security cameras are angled in our direction, something they couldn’t have predicted, so we can assume someone’s controlling the surveillance. In fact, they’ve been watching us since the moment we arrived. Our chances of coming out of this unscathed are at roughly a two-point six percent.”

Sherlock threw open the car door. “Off we go, Mr. Goalla. The game is on.”

He swaggered up the courthouse steps, looking for all the world the picture of ease as he popped his collar against the wind. 

Coach blinked, then ran after him. 

“Hey! Hey, wait up,” he trotted along beside Sherlock. “So, that was one hell of a power nap you took back there. What’d you do? Revert to factory settings?”

“Something like that,” Sherlock shrugged. 

He remembered feeling out of sorts before he went into the mind palace, but he felt right as rain now. Never better. He must’ve had the flu. Had he moved in with Coach Goalla to look into the case? God, he felt like he hadn’t had a case in months! Probably Mycroft’s fault, as he remembered agents shoving him in a glass box. He supposed he had been using more recklessly than usual.

They turned the corner, Holmes leading the way like he knew the layout of the building. He paused before the oak doors of the courtroom. A sweep of his eyes determined it was safe to enter, and he pushed both of them open in a dramatic entrance. 

“Evening,” he said, shoving both hands nonchalantly in his pockets. 

Jonathan Small, Sebastian Moran, and Mary Morstan stood in a line at the front of the room. 

Mary? The sporty little blond from Molly Hooper’s field hockey team? Mary was involved in this? Something outraged stirred in him, but he couldn’t figure out what. Why would he care one way or the other about Mary Morstan? 

James Wheatley spun around in the judge’s chair behind the bench, twirling the gavel. He wore a crooked powdered wig.

“The court is now in session. Hello, Sherlock,” he said. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

Sherlock scanned the man. He met the definition of a psychopath. He was cracked out even as they spoke, but it was more than drugs making him mental.

“Both,” said Sherlock, taking his gun out and aiming at Wheatley's head. 

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he said. “I take it you watched the video, or do I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose, that was rather the point.”

Sherlock, vaguely aware that both Mary and Seb were holding pistols of their own, hesitated, but kept talking. 

“You have my attention, so make your impression. Who are you really?”

Wheatley hurtled over the bench and walked straight to him, so close the barrel touched his head. “Jim Moriarty. Hi.”

Sherlock didn’t flinch. Best let the maniac keep talking. 

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a tinsy glimpse,” he said, “of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see, like you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Dear Jim, please won’t you help me cover up a failed murder. Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me so I get even with the men who killed Mummy.”

Jim smirked and wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “Just so,” he said, switching pitches and accents every time he spoke so that Sherlock couldn’t pin him. 

“Consulting criminal,” Sherlock breathed. “Brilliant.”

“Isn’t it?” grinned Jim. “No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will.”

Sherlock cocked his gun. “I did.”

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my _way.”_

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, okay, I _did,_ ” Jim shrugged. “But like I told you before, the flirting is over and Daddy’s had enough. I’ve shown you what I can do, killing your little friend’s brother, Prat-theesh, poisoning Stephen. I was impressed, by the way. But based on what I’ve heard of you, I must say you were slower than expected. Ka mate, ka mate.”

Friend? Sherlock searched, and he did have Stephen on file. He was more than Coach’s son. He was his friend. When had he gotten friends? 

Something stung.

_It was a life, Sherlock. An actual human life. Don’t you care at all?_

He was shocked to find that he did. 

“People have died.”

Jim chortled, smiling until his mood flipped.

“That’s what people _DO!”_ Jim screamed, his voice echoing through the chamber. 

Sherlock scanned the room.

“Where are the hostages?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Jim. “Did you think I brought them here? Oh, no, no, no.”

He snapped his fingers and Seb rolled out a projector screen. The lights dimmed and showed a live feed of a rugby match, but sitting at the sidelines were Stephen and the Watson boy.

“I wanted to make things a little more interesting,” said Jim. He clicked a button and it showed the two boys shirtless and outfitted with explosives, their bodies tight with red, yellow, and black wires. Stephen looked beat up, his eyes red from time spent in the chlorine, but he wasn’t in as bad a shape as Watson, whom Sherlock stared at for much longer than needed. It must’ve been due to the fearless set of his jaw, the anger he saw there. 

Brave, nerves of steel under pressure, military background. Musical?

That last one surprised him.

“Where’s Sholto?” asked Sherlock.

“Oh, we’ve got him. Seb, won’t you play bailiff and fetch the accused?”

Seb dragged Sholto from behind the bench. His mouth was duct-taped and his military uniform stripped of rank and medals. Seb threw him on the carpet beside Coach, who crouched to assess his injuries. 

“Ah, ah!” said Jim, snapping for Seb to aim his gun at Coach. “The trial is just now getting started, so please don’t handle the defendant till we’re done, or I’ll have to hold you in contempt.”

He flicked the screen back to the boys sitting in front of bleachers absolutely teeming with people, most of them children.

“If the prosecution could step forward?” Moriarty ripped the duct tape from Sholto’s mouth, also ripping away bits of his already busted skin, and strutted back to his seat and gavel. He was still wearing that ridiculous wig.

Jonathan Small came to the front of the room holding a crowbar. Small was banged up, his nose broken and his face black and blue. He’d fought someone, likely the Watson boy, but how had he beat him? By all accounts, Watson should have won. They must have ganged up on the lad. 

Visions of fistfights overwhelmed Sherlock’s focus. 

_“Either of you any good in a fight?”_

_“Absolutely.”_

_“Don’t worry, if he tries to mess with you again, I’ll take care of him.”_

_“Why? I don’t need you to.”_

_“Take the piss out of Sherlock to my face again and I’ll break every bone in your body while naming them, bitch!”_

_“You never loved me, John. You only loved the idea of someone loving you!”_

Knuckles flashed before his eyes, and Sherlock staggered like he really had been punched in the nose. His hand flew up to his face, but he composed his features before Moriarty could take them into account.

What the fuck just happened?

“Ranbir Goalla,” said Jonathan, “and James Sholto. How’s it feel being reunited at long last?” He circled around the two, even circled around Sherlock. 

“And the famous Sherlock Holmes. We told your little boyfriend you weren’t coming for him. You should have seen the look on his face.”

If Jonathan was expecting a reaction, he didn’t get one. He looked disappointed, but Sherlock only looked confused.

What the hell was he talking about? The memory… 

_You never loved me, John_ , his voice had accused, but he didn’t remember saying it.

Had Mycroft erased Watson like he had Victor Trevor? But why? He was nobody, just an insignificant hostage in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Watson thought he was so clever.” Jonathan turned on Sholto. “Just like you thought you were clever when you had your men lie for you. You said you were in Afghanistan, but my father got my mother’s emails. You were in the photographs and it was Goalla’s logo on those crates.” 

He crouched down, tilting Sholto’s face up with the tip of the crowbar. 

“You bombed her hotel, but you didn’t figure the blast radius, did you? It went wider than you expected, and when you left Kashmir, your men made it look like you stepped on a mine. I don’t know how you got out of Kashmir so quickly,” he turned to Coach, “but I’ll bet you do.”

Coach held up his hands. “I don’t.”

“Don’t lie to me!” screamed Jonathan, moving like he’d go for him with the crowbar. “ _You_ were the CEO! _You_ ran that company! Admit it: you paid Sholto to kill my mum.”

Coach didn’t argue, but hung his head. “I didn’t know about Rachel Barnaby when it was happening, and I don’t know how he was smuggled out of Kashmir, but you’re right. I did run the Goalla Group. It was my responsibility. If I’d taken a more active interest in the company and hadn’t left the major decisions to others, then your mother’s death wouldn’t have happened. You deserve your pound of flesh, but please,” Coach begged, “leave Stephen out of this. You’ve already taken one of my sons. Pratheesh didn’t do anything.”

“My mum did!” said Jonathan. “She spent her whole life taking down bastards like you, exposing the truth! And that’s what I want to hear.”

He took Sholto’s back and squeezed the crowbar over his throat. 

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me how you murdered my mum.”

The crowbar rubbed against the metal chain of dog tags hanging around Sholto’s neck.

Sherlock became keenly aware of something similar resting on his own sternum.

“The bomb was scheduled to go off at 0400 hours,” Sholto strained beneath the bar. “The detonator glitched and it went off fifteen minutes too soon.”

Jonathan’s expression shattered, then he steeled himself. 

“Keep going,” he gritted. “Tell me how he smuggled you out of Kashmir.”

Sholto didn’t stop struggling. “I paid my price. My life ended when they discharged me. My reputation, my honor, all of it was gone. Just me alone with my blood money.”

“Tell me!” Jonathan released Sholto and kicked him in the back, knocking the man to the floor. He took a jump drive out of his polo pocket. “Tell me or I’ll send the signal and blow the shit out of John Watson.”

“How does killing innocents give you justice?” Coach shouted.

“You’re a fine one to talk!” said Jonathan. “You escaped justice. You think losing your company compares to being blown to bits? You think it compares to growing up without a mum? It doesn’t. I don’t give a damn about the end of his military career! I don’t give a damn how many Goallas or John Watsons or sports spectators I have to kill. It’ll never be enough for me!”

Sholto didn’t move, but his eyes shifted to Coach Goalla. 

“I called the woman who hired me, and her drivers pulled me from the rubble and drove me into Afghanistan.”

Jonathan didn’t move. “You… You called… ?”

“My wife,” finished Coach Goalla. “She quit going through Kashmir after the fallout, Jonathan. She had to move countries because of the threats on her life. Rachel won. _You_ won, a long time ago.”

If Jonathan was happy, it didn’t show. He was shaken, horror bleeding into his features. 

He cleared his throat. “No matter. I’ll get her next, just like I got all of you.”

Coach looked over at Sherlock.

Slowly, Jim started clapping. He stood on the bench.

“What a stunning legal drama! A corrupt army officer brought low and a disgraced businessman finding his morals. I was on the edge of my seat the whole time. However,” he took out a gun of his own. “I do believe it’s my turn, and I sentence all of you _guilty_ people to—”

“Wait!” said Sherlock.

Mary exchanged a sideways glance with Jim, and Seb took up a rifle, awaiting commands. 

Sherlock’s arm was getting tired and he wished the calvary would hurry it up. They needed time, Stephen needed time.

And John Watson. 

Something felt dangerous about his name, like a piece of it was missing. 

“You haven’t heard everything, _your honor,_ ” said Sherlock, deciding it was best playing into Moriarty’s delusions of grandeur. The bastard had a God complex, and isn’t that what judges are? Just men in wigs playing God?

“Oh, I haven’t?” said Moriarty, looking beside himself with glee. 

The game was going into overtime. 

“No, because Sholto isn’t the only murderer here, setting you, the bailiff, and the Ukrainian assassin out of the mix.”

Mary twisted her lips, sneering. 

“Oh, please, like it was really that hard to figure?” Sherlock said. “You hold yourself like a professional. An _MI6 trained_ professional. Mycroft’s been working with a unit from Ukraine. I’m guessing you’re, what? A black widow war orphan?”

He turned back to Moriarty. “Jonathan Small is a killer too, and I have a few deductions of my own, or wouldn’t you like to see if everything you’ve heard about me is really true?”

“Sir Boast-a-lot,” smiled Moriarty. “Wants an opportunity to show off?”

He lowered his gun

“Alright, Sherlock,” he flourished his arms and bowed. “Dazzle me, but fair warning it won’t be as easy as it is with your precious Dr. Watson.”

_“You’re the doctor. I’m just the detective.”_

Moriarty sat on the bench and crossed his legs. 

Sherlock began, steadying his voice. 

“I couldn’t figure out how you got so close to Agatha, but my eyes were closed, weren't they? When I went to the annual staff asking to see the photographs taken that day, I only looked at people in the pictures. I never thought about the person behind the camera. You pretended to adjust her body for poses and stabbed her clean through. It was so subtle she didn’t even register what you’d done till later when she showered. That’s what you were waiting around for, right? To see if it’d worked. I imagine you became rather nervous when I caught sight of you. Clever, cutting through Kipling like that.”

Sherlock sauntered up to Jonathan, glaring down his nose. 

“Your mother must’ve graduated in the 1980s when side-shaves were in fashion. You dressed as a young Rachel Barnaby and scoped out the dressing rooms for women with potential back injuries. There _are_ no coincidences, turns out. There were other candidates, like Molly Hooper, for example, a girl whom you stalked but then suddenly abandoned for Agatha. Why?”

He leaned near his face. “Because she was Indian, like the Goallas who you hated.”

Sherlock circled Jonathan, thinking aloud. 

“You never went for Goalla before, possibly because you consoled yourself with the knowledge that he now worked in a private school coaching a losing team instead of running the multimillion-dollar conglomerate that your mother had worked so hard to destroy. But then you—”

Something was missing. He searched the files on Small and found a soundbite.

_“I saw you getting out of a car with him on your first day. Is he your dad?”_

_“How do you know Major Sholto?”_

That last one, _John’s_ voice. Why were so many of his memories saturated in the Watson boy? Was it just for the case? How important had he been to him?

 _“Is that his name? He was one of the best wingers this school’s ever had. I work on the yearbook staff. His picture is everywhere, even though it was so long ago. People like to remember pleasant things._ ”

“Oh, OH!” 

Sherlock had it. 

“You couldn’t stand when you thought Sholto had a son. People like to remember pleasant things, do they? But no one remembered you mum. No one thought of Rachel Barnaby. People called Sholto a traitor, but at the end of the day what people would remember was John, his supposed son, and Sholto and what a fantastic rugby player he’d been if John joined the team and turned out to be a success. But then I’ll bet a thought occurred to you: Your two greatest enemies, Goalla and Sholto, sharing a single pitch. If you could just get them together then you could kill them both. You could even end their bloodlines.”

Sherlock pointed towards Mary. “That’s where you come in, isn’t it Morstan?”

He walked up to her. “How long did it take you to realize Small was the man stalking you and Molly? If you work for Mycroft and Moriarty knows him, then I’ll bet in about the same time that it took you to recognize James Wheatley as Jim Moriarty, a criminal mastermind. But rather than turn Small over to me and Jim over to Mycroft, you switched sides. Why?”

Mary scowled, looking Sherlock from head to toe. 

“You don’t deserve him,” she said. “He’s always fancied you, but look at you now. Bragging about your own intelligence like you don’t even care he’s going to die.”

“Who? Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

Mary looked even angrier, but he didn’t have time for her and rounded back to Jonathan. 

“Mary introduced you to Jim, didn’t she?” he said. “And you didn’t take him up at first, but then in detention…”

He remembered Small’s face paling. 

_“You’re not playing? But I assumed… I just thought you would.”_

“You were upset when Watson said that he wasn’t playing. You realized that your plan wouldn’t work, so you needed Jim.”

Sherlock felt that he was on the cusp of a grand connection, but as he reached for it, it slipped through his fingers. He tried again, then again. Still it escaped him.

No matter. Nothing a quick visit to the mind palace couldn’t fix if he was quick about it. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was sitting in his chair in the study. The bookshelves were bare and only a single log burned on the fire. The palace was cold, cleaner than usual and almost… empty. 

“Not-Real Mycroft!” he commanded. 

The figment of his brother materialized before his eyes. “You bellowed, Brother Mine?”

Sherlock walked straight through him and opened the door to the hall. He began darting about the mind palace, finding whole paintings missing, though he couldn’t remember what they’d been of. He took the stairs for the west wing but found it wasn’t there. The entire west wing was gone! Alarm coursed through him.

“What’s happened?” asked Sherlock. 

Had he suffered brain damage?

“What’s wrong with the mind palace?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” said Not-Real Mycroft piteously. “I told you to put in a fail-safe.”

“A fail-safe?” asked Sherlock. “What the fuck are you talking about? Why would I put a fail-safe in my brain?”

“You removed someone,” said Not-Real Mycroft. “Someone you shouldn’t have.”

Blood rushed in his ears.

“The Watson boy,” said Sherlock. “He’s been erased just like Victor Trevor was.”

“Yes,” said Not-Real Mycroft, “But not by me this time. By you. Memories can resurface. Wounds can reopen. The roads we walk have demons beneath, and yours have been waiting for a very long time. You erased John Watson mere moments ago, but in doing so you took out all the memories you’d attached him to, even ones dating back to your childhood.”

Sherlock demanded files, and Not-Real Mycroft pulled them up, but at least thirty percent of all data was blacked out, censored, redacted, _useless._ He tore through the systems and found that the damage went as high as seventy percent in more recent records.

“How the hell could he have been that important?” said Sherlock. “The school year didn’t even start until September. I must not have known him for more than four months!”

“Yet the whole hard drive is devastated. You’ll never solve this case if you don’t restore what’s been lost, Sherlock.”

“How do I do that?”

It must have been possible. If what Not-Real Mycroft said was true, then he’d only deleted Watson moments ago, yet he’d been bombarded with memories and the sound of his voice. 

John. 

“Is there another administrator?” asked Sherlock. “Like you but… somewhere else?”

“There was,” said Not-Real Mycroft, “but if the mind palace looks like this _,_ you can only imagine what you’ve done to your heart.”

Panic rose in his throat. This was bad. 

This was _really_ bad. 

“I caught glimpses of memories earlier. I couldn’t have deleted everything!”

Not-Real Mycroft looked at his watch. “Better hurry, Sherlock. You’ve been submerged for forty-eight seconds. That’s a long time to a human waiting. Such fickle creatures.” 

“Pull up his file!” said Sherlock. “We’ll look at what we have and see if I can’t fill in the blanks.”

The hologram appeared before him, but it was red, not blue like the healthy files, and even more sparse. 

John Watson. Lower middle-class. Medical school aspirations. Anger issues. Electric guitarist. Military Background. Dead father. Mother. Brother. Sholto, father-figure paid tuition with blood money.

That’s it? That’s all they had? Those were barely deductions! He hadn’t deleted John Watson. He’d turned him into nothing but a list.

“That isn’t right,” said Sherlock. 

“What isn’t?” 

“The brother. He doesn’t have a brother. The—”

_You said yourself that the writing on the shoes was feminine._

And that was it, the minute detail that he hadn’t deleted.

Harriet Jane Watson. 

“Harry!” said Sherlock. 

He demanded everything they had on Harry Watson and found what he was looking for, the domino that sent the rest toppling. 

_“I never once worried that Harry would go to hell because of who she loved, so why am I worried about that for myself? Maybe it’s not losing heaven that I’m afraid of, but that Sherlock won’t love me back.”_

A file notification dinged as it came back online. 

REDACTED FILE RESTORED: Operation: Gemini

A video pop-up took over the screen. It was John, pouring his heart out. 

“I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks! I don’t give a damn you’re a boy. I was a fool to ever let that keep me from you. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing to you, and I don’t care if you don’t want to be my boyfriend. I want you any way you’ll have me, so please say we’re friends again.”

John took his hands, squeezing them. “Please.”

Sherlock could swear he _felt it._

REDACTED FILE RESTORED: John Watson, Designation Boyfriend

“John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Videoing you,” said John on his stomach from the top bunk.

“Why?” asked Sherlock. 

“Because I love you and I want to remember you playing violin in your underwear when I have to go back home for the summer.”

The boy sounded dejected. Sherlock laid down his violin and pulled himself up to the top bunk. He threw John’s phone into the laundry basket across the room.

“Hey!”

“You’re not going home for the summer,” said Sherlock, taking the boy in his arms and leaning in for a deep kiss. He broke away breathlessly after what felt like an eternity. “You’re going to stay in London with me.”

“How—?”

“Let me handle it,” he said, brushing the sandy hair out of John’s eyes. 

Heartbreakingly hazel.

“I can take care of you.” 

They laid sideways across the bed, their feet dangling off the side and looking into each other’s eyes when the video cut.

REDACTED FILE RESTORED: Relationship Terminated

Sherlock watched a phantom of himself shatter a picture of the Hindu goddess of love. 

“Can’t you just accept that I don’t want you anymore?”

He flinched. What the fuck was he saying?

“I DON’T CARE!” John said. 

He looked so sick, so much thinner and gaunt than in the earlier memories.

“I don’t care if we aren’t together. I don’t care if you hate me and have Mycroft mail me to Singapore when this is over! I don’t care if we aren’t friends! It doesn’t change anything for me, but you’re killing yourself.”

“You wanna know what I deduce when I look at you?” said Sherlock, his arm peppered in fresh track marks. “I deduce an insecure, pathetic adrenaline junkie who’s so starved for someone to love him, who’s just pleading for someone to treat him like he’s special that—”

“You are killing yourself! You’re fucking killing yourself, can’t you see that?”

Sherlock’s image studied John like he was a disease under a microscope. 

“You’ve been sleeping on the rugby pitch wallowing in your own pity. Are you actually mourning me?” 

He laughed. 

He had _laughed_ at that.

“The only thing more pathetic than that is you! ”

Sherlock shut down the file. “I don’t want this one, Not-Real Mycroft. You can _burn_ it for all I care. Delete it again.”

“But don’t you remember?” Not Real-Mycroft pulled up a file. It was black and on _paper._ “This one is the last. It’ll set everything to rights.”

He accepted it with shaking hands. “How long have I been out now?”

“Almost a minute. The people on the outside are getting impatient. You need to hurry this up, Sherlock.”

He looked down at the file. “What does the black mean?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Not-Real Mycroft. “It came from downstairs.”

“Downstairs?”

The mind palace didn’t have a basement, not one he’d ever been to.

He flipped the file in his hands. Scrawled across the top in white ink, it read, “ _From the shores of black and shriveled.”_

_______________________________________________________________________

Agents Young and Sutterfield looked down at the dummy, a knocked-over hoover draped in Sherlock’s bathrobe and with a rugby ball for a head.

“The boss is gonna murder us.” 

“We’re holding assault rifles.”

“Doesn’t matter. She’s still gonna kill us.”

The sound of footsteps barrelled up the stairs. Anthea Khan kicked the door clear off the hinges. She held Sherlock’s bloody tooth between her fingers.

_“Where. Is. He?”_

Young took the opportunity to open fire on the boombox playing violin recordings. The lights blinked out and half the speaker system fell to the floor.

“We don’t know, ma’am,” said Sutterfield, “but we’ll find out.”

Agent Young had seen Spanish bulls that looked less angry than Agent Khan. All she needed was a nose ring to set off the flaring nostrils.

Anthea spoke softly. “The two of you were given the most difficult, most dangerous, and the most important assignment in all the UK and you _lost it?”_

Another set of footsteps bounded up the stairs, and a young girl appeared in the doorway. Her brown and copper hair frizzed in all directions. 

“Molly!” Anthea sighed with relief. “Finally, someone competent!”

He gathered Molly in her arms and picked her up off the floor. 

“Please tell me you know where Sherlock is.”

Molly held out her phone, and also, a gun, the one Greg kept from the bank robbery all those months ago.

“He’s at the courthouse. A boy named James Wheatley and a boy named Jonathan Small took Stephen and John hostage.”

Anthea turned to Agent Sutterfield and snatched his rifle and magazines. 

“Give me your vest.”

“Ma’am?”

“Miss Hooper and I are not charging a scene without proper protective equipment. Now give me your vest.”

Anthea practically peeled it off his back and charged down the hallway. She threw it on Molly’s chest.

“Where is he?”

“The Saxon-Mar courthouse on West Main,” said Molly. “That’s the last thing he told me. He said _Goodbye,_ Anthea. Sherlock never signs his texts goodbye.”

Anthea grabbed her helmet on the way out the front door and handed it to Molly. She slung the rifle strap across her body and threw her leg over the seat of her Ducati motorcycle. She had to lean all the way over to ride it. 

“This isn’t a two-person bike, kid,” she said, pulling Molly close to her back. “Better hold on tight.”

Molly yelped as Anthea peeled out of the driveway on one wheel. The scream of the bike faded into the distance. 

Agents Young and Sutterfield stumbled down the stairs and skidded to a stop on the gravel outside. 

“... Do you suppose we’ve been sacked?”

Sutterfield, who considered himself lucky Anthea hadn’t tied them with a rope and dragged them down the pavement with her Ducati, scoffed at the idea. 

“Are you kidding? Like England could expect us to outsmart Sherlock Holmes!”

_______________________________________________________________________

The file read: _You are the dumbest human being I’ve ever come across,_ and it was written in John’s handwriting.

Or rather, Not-Real John’s handwriting.

_I can’t come up. Your heart is in a desolate state, but I had just enough of my wits about me when you came up with this harebrained scheme to program a fail-safe, one you couldn’t lose._

_Did you really think you could compartmentalize John? You stored away Victor Trevor for years, and when that memory got out, you dealt with it by becoming a junkie. You can’t “delete” the memories that cause you pain. You have to work through them._

_You also can’t go on keeping your heart and your mind separate. When your heart runs the show, you don’t see reason, but when you rely solely on the cold facts that the mind palace provides, you are_ _dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. You need both to merge if you’re ever to be a whole person._

_A happy and healthy person._

_I propose an alliance._

_Enter the fail-safe in the file BART’S BLOODY HOSPITAL. The password is around your neck._

_Love,_

_John_

Sherlock threw down the file. 

“That bloody arsehole!” He looked over at Not-Real Mycroft. “He had the fail-safe the whole time? How long did he wait to give this to us!”

“Everyone in here is _you,”_ said Not-Real Mycroft. “You do know that, right? I know you’re suffering from a speedball-addled crack brain, but do try to remember you’re a Holmes. Why don’t you just admit that no matter how dire the situation you could never forget John Watson?”

Not-Real Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“How _ghastly._ I suppose I’m going to have to share this place now with your _feelings._ ”

He cringed. 

Sherlock snapped at him to quit his bellyaching and pull up the file for the merge. 

The password… was around his neck?

He reached into his shirt and pulled out John’s dog tag.

The file glowed before him, red and with the cursor blinking in the place of the password. 

JOHN _______ WATSON

Could it really be that simple? John’s middle name?

His heart was a sap and so was he, apparently. He typed in the code. 

HAMISH

The file turned green. Odd, all of his files were blue, but then he remembered it was John’s favorite color. 

As he said, a sap. A huge, lovesick sap, and the merge hadn’t even happened yet. 

A video played. It was him lying with John the morning after Operation: Gemini, the first first time they ever woke up together like this. John, as usual, wasn’t awake yet. He snored softly, every so often talking in his sleep. 

Sherlock had been performing experiments on him for weeks, seeing if he couldn’t get him to confess his feelings or talk about something interesting that he wouldn’t remember when he woke up. However, John never said anything _coherent._ He’d talk about aerial assaults on garden gnomes or ask the Queen why Harry couldn’t play at her Platinum Jubilee and _fine, be that way because Beyonce is just as much a queen as anybody._

Truly another reason never to go to sleep. 

Nothing could spoil that morning, not even John’s deplorable morning breath. He slept with his lips parted which did nothing to aid the situation, but still. 

Yesterday they’d declared themselves in front of the entire school, and then again much more privately in the stairwell, though Sherlock had needed to sneak away to destroy the security cameras and all recorded footage (except for a small download he’d kept for himself).

He’d never felt this happy in his life. He could’ve died right there without a single regret.

John rolled over in his sleep and wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock, nuzzling into his chest and muttering, “I love you,” against his skin.

Sherlock tilted his head off the pillow, burying his face into John’s hair and memorizing the scent of his shampoo. Mango this month. 

He’d changed, he realized. Two months earlier he never would have _snuggled_ with anyone. He definitely wouldn’t have _forgiven_ someone who pulled him close and then pushed him away, and he most certainly, not in a million years, ever would have believed he could _love_ someone. But he did. Sherlock wasn’t the same, and that didn’t scare him. 

He looked down at John, his hair ruffled and most of his face hidden against the skin peeking from Sherlock’s V neck. The slightest bit of drool was gathering there, but he didn’t care. John loved him, and he loved John. They’d never be alone again.

They’d promised.

“I used to think that deductions didn’t change when I was a child, but loads of them can. Ages, weights, abilities. Even tattoos can be covered or fade.”

He looked down to make sure that John was still sleeping.

“My brother— That’s Mycroft, by the way. Took you long enough to figure that out. — says that the only permanent deduction in life is death, but he’s wrong. On like, _a million_ different fronts. For example, your race doesn’t change. Your origins, your background, but I see what he means.”

Sherlock shrugged, startling when John stirred against him, but the boy quickly settled in to sleep. 

“Most things _can_ change. What I deduce about one person today could be vastly different than what I deduce about the same person twenty years from now.”

Sherlock put his hand against John’s cheek, still red and indented from where he’d slept on Sherlock’s shirt.

“But I promise you. This is more than the end of the line. How I feel about you won’t change, no matter how I do or you do. I’ll grow with you, John Watson.”

His voice wavered. He swallowed back whatever threatened to overcome him. 

“This is my vow, my permanent deduction. I will love you always.”

John stretched, his face reaching up to Sherlock’s jawline. When he felt teeth, Sherlock knew he was awake.

“Morning,” John said, nibbling at his ear. “Did you sleep at all?”

Sherlock grunted. “No, the noxious fumes emanating from your mouth kept me up all night.”

John covered his mouth but said, “Do you have to beat the shit out of me with your verbal thesaurus at morning light?”

“I have to,” said Sherlock. “I’m hoping it will knock the shit out of your mouth.”

John shot up and planted one right on Sherlock’s mouth.

“Ew, John!” 

The boy laughed, but got out of the bed and took up his toothbrush. 

“Maybe I should get a different room,” he said, but not serious. “Then you wouldn't have to stomach my ‘noxious fumes.’”

“You wouldn’t dare!” said Sherlock, then softer, “Would you?”

John fell more serious, straightening against the doorframe. 

“Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay.”

John was quoting something, but he didn’t recognize it.

“Where’s that from?”

John smirked and walked over to the bed Sherlock was still lying in. John leaned over and kissed his forehead, brushing away the curls. 

“It’s a Catholic thing,” explained John. “Considered quite romantic.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” said John. “It means no matter what, you and I will always be together.”

Then John did something he _hadn’t_ in the memory, something that hadn’t happened in real life. He knelt by the side of Sherlock’s bed.

“Wake up, William Sherlock, or the permanent deduction will be death.”

_______________________________________________________________________ 

Sherlock surfaced out of his mind palace just as violently as he had before, but it still startled Coach Goalla, who was just happy Moriarty hadn’t shot them yet. He’d cocked his gun, but at the last minute held it to the sky as he saw Sherlock coming around. 

“You needed Jim because you knew the only way to get John on the team was to get _me_ invested in rugby! John goes wherever I go and I go wherever John goes!”

If the gunshot frightened him, he didn’t show it.

He barrelled on. 

“Everyone knows I can’t resist a murder! Hell, I love murders! They’re bloody puzzles, and John forgives me for that as long as I’m not too joyful about it, so you poisoned Pratheesh. You were going to kill both the Goalla boys in accidents, but you aimed for Stephen. I cared about him more, and no doubt Moriarty felt petty over Molly ringing his bell with a rangoli bowl.” He looked over at Jim. “No offense.”

Sherlock didn’t give Moriarty an opportunity to answer. He was skipping about the room in a state.

“Mary!” he said, stopping in front of her. “You bitch, Anthea Khan herself trained you to use a knife, but you’ve always resented her, much like I resented my older brother. You saw Stephen alive and kicking at the rugby match and knew straight away you’d murdered the wrong man. Pratheesh was supposed to go last because you all assumed Coach loved him more. You’re an only child. You couldn’t have figured on Pratheesh stealing something he didn’t even need like poisoned eczema lotion. You knew I wouldn’t look too closely into the death of Pratheesh unless it was obvious. I mean, under normal circumstances, I’m sure I would have, but I’ve been so busy stealing your man I have to admit, this one would have passed me by if you hadn’t stolen the trainers and carved Ka Mate into his gut. Nice touch, by the way. Very clever.”

He nodded sympathetically at Coach and tried to rein in it, but the restoration of the memories that’d once been so painful had him on a high cocaine would have a hard time rivaling. 

He clicked up his heels and danced over to Jonathan, slapping the crowbar right out of his hands.

“You stalked my boyfriend, baited us with rugby pictures as red herrings, and then used _Jim,”_ he rolled his unamused face toward Moriarty, “to _break us up!”_

He backhanded Jonathan Small over the jury box.

“And you helped him do it, Jim, because you might be an emotionless piece of shit, but you see the world in pressure points and John’s mine. I can’t even lie about it. You knew John would stay on that team because that moron never gives up. _God,_ he doesn’t! And you know that the only moron greater than John Hamish Watson is _me, this_ motherfucker right here!” he exclaimed, pointing to himself.

Coach looked to Moriarty and everyone else in the room shrugging and shaking his head. He didn’t know what the hell was going on. His son’s murderers were standing around holding a gun on him, and instead of fighting back or cowering he’d spent most of the time trying to explain away Sherlock’s habits or talk people out of killing him.

“No, no, YES! That’s it! Splitting us up was the perfect manipulation! It guaranteed John would get on the team and that I would become isolated in a dumbassed attempt to keep him safe! And isn’t that what this is really about? You’re a career criminal. You don’t give a damn about Jonathan Small’s mummy issues. You’ve talked about Mycroft. Only the worst of the worst know about Mycroft. This isn’t about Small at all. This is about getting me out of MI6 protection so you can use me against my darling older brother! Ha!”

Sherlock slapped his hands together. 

Judging by the look on his face, Moriarty was more accustomed to being that madman than being around the madman.

“That’s… almost completely bang on, actually. Well done,” said Moriarty. 

Sherlock took a bow, still smiling like an idiot.

“But I’m still going to shoot them,” he said, extending his arm till the cold barrel touched Sherlock’s head. “And I’m going to kill your little moron for you.”

“No, you won’t,” said Sherlock, counting down on his fingers. He’d been in the mind palace turned healthy state of mind for two minutes and twelve seconds, and he’d ranted for forty-five seconds, and when one factors in the average speed of two women on a Ducati racing motorcycle, that leaves you with 

Three

Two

One.

Anthea busted through the window at around the same time Sherlock swerved and looped Moriarty’s arm. He didn’t succeed in taking his gun, but he did succeed in kicking it across the room. He tried to reach for his own, placed once more in his pocket during his zoned-out state, but Moriarty was much stronger than he looked. It took all his strength just to keep Jim's hands from around his throat. 

Coach dragged Sholto for cover as Anthea opened fire. Seb and Mary fired back, but only Seb was holding a rifle. 

“Goalla, get Sholto out of here!”

“With pleasure!” he yelled flashing the okay sign from his place hiding behind the jury box with Jonathan. He went to make his great escape, but not before clocking Jonathan with an uppercut right on the chin. The boy was out cold. 

Molly, armed with Greg’s pistol and clad in a bulletproof vest and motorcycle helmet, covered Coach while he dragged Sholto from the room.

“Mary Morstan, you are a terrible roommate!”

Molly had to be careful with her ammunition. She only had seven bullets, but Anthea was loading magazine after magazine. 

“WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES, YOU GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!”

Moriarty had him by the throat, so he was struggling a bit. 

Molly, inexperienced with a gun, landed a lucky shot on Seb’s shoulder but realized she was out of bullets. 

“What do I do?”

Anthea fired at Seb, but he was under cover, and it was a miracle Mary hadn’t shot Molly already.

“Stay down!”

But Sherlock was turning blue and Anthea was on her last magazine. Molly had to do something. She sprinted from her cover behind the witness stand and dove for Moriarty’s gun on the floor. 

Mary took pressure off of Anthea for a second to shoot, but Molly kicked back into the hallway just in time to where the bullet only struck her in the arm. She screamed. 

Coach was back. He’d loaded Sholto in the boot and taken the first-aid kid instead. 

“Coach! They’re choking him!”

Coach was more worried about Molly. Mary struck her in the brachial artery. She’d bleed out if he didn’t get a tourniquet on her soon. 

“Coach!” 

Molly wouldn’t be fussed over. He only managed to remove her motorcycle helmet. Finally, he saw that she was holding a gun in her hand. 

“I can’t shoot from here. I could hit him!”

“You might,” Coach said, “But I won’t.” 

He took it up, held it steady, and pulled the trigger. 

Blood splattered all over Sherlock, along with most of Moriarty’s brains.

“That,” he said, turning back to Molly, “was for my sons.”

He picked her up under the knees and the back and carried her bridal style out the front doors. Molly needed an ambulance, and Stephen would be pissed as hell if he let his girlfriend die.

Sherlock leaped for cover behind the jury box. 

“Well,” he said as he took the jump drive out of an unconscious Jonathan’s polo pocket and looking like he walked off the set of the movie _Carrie,_ “that was tedious!”

With her boy safely away from enemy territory, Anthea Khan was done fucking around. He pulled a hand grenade out of her tactical pants and threw it across the room. 

The grenade detonated on Seb, killing him instantly and the blast slamming Mary into the eastern wall. She didn’t get up.

Sherlock turned, his chest heaving. “You didn’t do the pin with your teeth thing.”

“That only happens in movies! Don’t ever try it!”

Panels and a beam in the building collapsed. The bench was on fire. 

Anthea, still holding her rifle, pulled on the fire alarm. 

“If I wanted flashbacks of what it was like to babysit you, I wouldn’t have banned the Operation game!”

“Oh, so this is my fault?”

“You bet your sweet ass it is!”

Sherlock threw Jonathan over his shoulder. 

“Take that belligerent outside. I’ll handle Mary.”

Sherlock nodded. He needed to drop off Jonathan and steal a laptop anyhow. They had no idea what kind of bomb they were dealing with and the match would be over soon. His earlier high had long worn off, and now his chest was heavy with anxiety. 

John Watson wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t let him. 

Anthea Khan kicked her way through the wreckage and the fires, careful not to stand too close to anything that could get her magazine too hot.

Mary stirred. When she saw Anthea, she reached for her gun, but the woman brought the heel of her boot down on her wrist.

“Hey, Vynnyk,” she said, staring down Mary from the barrel of her SA80. 

The soot and flames danced around her eyes.

Mary gulped. “My name isn’t Vynnyk anymore.”

“I trained you,” Anthea accused. “I raised you like you were my own sister. Why’d you do it, Vynn?”

Mary glared. “Because I love John Watson.”

“No, you don’t,” shrugged Anthea. “Do you hear that?”

Mary listened. It sounded like a motor screaming. 

“That’s Sherlock, stealing my Ducati to go save John.” She threw her rifle across her body and twisted Mary’s arm behind her back, holding her at the point of her own gun. “Because _you_ strapped a bomb to his chest.”


	38. Click, Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a mysterious fourth villain starts the timer on the bombs, Sherlock and Stephen must race against the clock to diffuse them. 
> 
> But like Stephen said, if one of them goes off, all of them go off.
> 
> Can they disarm them in time?
> 
> Click, Boom.

The match was in its final twenty minutes.

“You know that saying ‘Football is ninety minutes of pretending to be hurt…”

“But rugby is 80 minutes of pretending not to be? Yeah, I’m really feeling that right about now,” said John. He kept looking back at the stands trying to think of a way to warn people. Hell, the _parents_ Jonathan had invited were even there with the younger siblings of his teammates on their laps. Ben Farnon’s seven-year-old sister was sleeping on his mum’s chest. Ryan’s twin baby brothers were flailing their arms about in car seats for Christ’s sake. 

“We can’t just sit here and let this happen.”

Stephen shushed him. “It’s that kind of talk that gets people blown up,” he mouthed, pointing at the wires. John read his lips as he said, _“All we can do is hope Sherlock and my dad get us out of this.”_

“You saw the video, Steph. Sherlock’s not coming.” John hung his head. “I guess he really wasn’t faking. Why would he? He used to say that he didn’t have friends, that he only had one. I thought that was me, but I guess it was crack.”

The crowd booed as the Badgers suffered a particularly brutal turnover. 

“John,” said Stephen, “I love Molly Hooper. I wanted to grow old with that ruddy woman, and the fact that I’m gonna die today doesn’t change that. Everything that’s happening with you and Sherlock…” 

He looked at his hands.

“It’s my fault.”

John turned his head. “What do you mean?”

“When I was ignoring Molly after Pratheesh, I told Sherlock that he’d do the same thing if he thought you were in danger. I put the idea in his head.”

He held the back of his neck with his hands, exposing just the slightest hang of wires around his abdomen. 

“He’s doing it to protect you, mate. I know he is.”

John patted his shoulder as gently as he could but looked up at the grey storm clouds threatening to burst above. 

The thunder rolled. 

“I could diffuse this fucking thing if I could just get in front of a mirror.”

“You could?” asked John. “What kind of kid knows how to diffuse a bomb?”

Stephen gave him the side-eye. “Have you met any of our friends? Or your ex-boyfriend, a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high?”

“Sherlock isn’t a sociopath!”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged. “You oughta take my bad boy side with stride.”

Stephen opened his mouth, but it took him a minute before he worked up the nerve to say, “You sounded pretty defensive there.”

“Shut up.”

“Why don’t you just bloody admit it?” Stephen asked, standing on the bench. “We’re about to be blown to smithereens, Watson. This is no time to be proud.”

“Admit what?”

Stephen plopped down, jostling his body more than a man strapped with semtex should, and straddled the bench. 

“You can say you’re okay all you want to, and I’m happy for you. I really am, _but,_ ” he pointed his finger, “I was away from Molly for four days and told her that we ought to,” he formed air quotes, “‘see other people,’ you know, like an _idiot,_ and I wasn’t okay. I was miserable.”

He threw his leg over the bench to sit properly and scooted next to John.

“You and Sherlock have officially been broken up longer than you were dating. And he’s a mean motherfucker when he’s detoxing. Nobody blames you for leaving. It was the toughest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Stephen twiddled with his thumbs. “Molly and I fought because she told me to check on you and I said no. I really believed all that shit I said about not giving you false hope and believing when people tell you that they don’t want you.” He shook his head. “I’m lucky Molly never believed that about me. I should have been there for you, mate. I should have told you along with everyone else what’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“Oh, yeah?” John said, “And what’s that?”

Stephen cocked his brows and gave John a look like he was dealing with the biggest moron in the world. 

“That Sherlock _loves_ you, you wanker.”

John bit down on his lips. 

_Don’t cry._

“I’m just saying,” Stephen continued, “if Molly was about to die, I wouldn’t want her last thoughts to be that I didn’t care.”

_Sod it._

John wiped at his eyes. “God, I hope Sherlock’s out of his fucking room and Molly’s not in Aiken.”

“Those two?” scoffed Stephen. He wrapped an arm around John. “They’re probably out causing trouble right now.”

Just then, the stadium broke into screams, but not of excitement. A madman raced a Ducati motorcycle up the handicap ramp, sending people careening over the sides. The bike squealed to a stop and the driver, hidden beneath his coat and helmet, jerked out a Browning L9A1 and fired two shots into the air. 

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” John heard Hilary scream above the crowd. 

_Sherlock?_

John felt his heart hammer against his constricting chest. 

The driver whipped off his helmet and fluffed his hair. 

John would recognize those curls anywhere. 

“Go into the announcer's box!” screamed Sherlock. “There are bombs at this match! Get everyone out of here!”

Hilary and Eliza fought the current of spectators pouring out of the stands and took over the microphone. 

_“There is an explosive device planted in the stadium. All athletes and spectators are advised to evacuate. I repeat: EVACUATE.”_

Eliza pulled the fire alarm for good measure and Sherlock jumped over the railing. Relief flooded his face when he saw John. He only had eyes for him. 

“Where’s Molly?” asked Stephen. “Is she with you?”

“She was,” said Sherlock, serious once more and pulling a laptop from the lining of this coat. He booted it up and connected it to the hotspot on his phone before loading the files from a jump drive. He kneeled, using the bench as a table while he worked. “She’s been shot, but your dad rushed her to a hospital. Everything is gonna be okay. Everything is gonna be _fine,”_ he rushed. 

“Goddammit!”

He beat his fist against the bench. “They’re encrypted. They’re—”

He took a sharp breath and his face turned ashen. Sherlock looked at John, his mouth ajar and trembling, but only for a moment.

John could hear his teeth grinding. 

“What’s wrong?” John asked, kneeling beside Sherlock. “Do I need to start running? Do you need to start running?”

“Not yet. Look!” 

Sherlock pointed at the screen. A timer had begun, a countdown from fifteen minutes. 

“Who the hell turned it on? Mary’s arrested, Seb’s blown up, and Moriarty was shot in the fucking brainstem!”

The screen flickered in and out, but Sherlock typed viciously against whoever was trying to take it from him. 

“Let me!” said Stephen, bumping him out of the way.

“Where was Molly shot?” he asked, working against the ghost in the machine faster than Sherlock ever could. “Is she gonna be okay?”

“She was shot in the brachial artery,” said Sherlock. “She would have bled to death instantly if your dad hadn’t been so quick about it. He put a tourniquet on her as soon as she’d sit still for it.”

Stephen ticked the corner of his lips.

“Have you broken through?” asked Sherlock.

“No,” he said. “I’m just thinking that sounds exactly like my girl.”

Stephen pounded away furiously at the keyboard, growing more and more frustrated. 

“It’s no use! I told John. This is similar to a mobile phone bomb. You can't hack around. It's working off of a signal. Ideally, you could jam it and _then_ disarm, but we’ve got no choice. I can't jam it, and even if I did, it'd jam up emergency responders too. We’re gonna have to diffuse them while we’re wearing them. I don't even get it! Why the timer? The way this is set up, they could have just clicked a button and killed us already. But they're giving us fifteen frickin' minutes for two bombs?”

“It’ll take me fifteen minutes just to diffuse one!”

And the clock was already down to thirteen.

Panic engulfed Sherlock’s features. How the hell was he going to tell Molly Hooper he let her boyfriend die so he could save John instead? And furthermore, now that he’d let it slip, John would be a selfless bitch and insist that Stephen went first.

“Can you?” asked John. “Diffuse a bomb?”

God, how Sherlock had longed to hear John’s voice, but after so long, those were the _last_ first words that he expected to hear. 

“Of course I do! I’m a Holmes!” 

“Good,” nodded John. “Stephen, what do you need? We’ll message the girls to evacuate Aiken House.”

“I’m not letting you blow up!” Sherlock screamed. “I don’t care if I have to knock you unconscious, you’re the one getting his ass saved!” 

He turned.

“Stephen, hang close. I’ll work as fast as I possibly can. I’ll try to get you too. Maybe if I talk you through it we can diffuse both at the same—”

“As touching as this is,” said Stephen, sending a series of texts on Greg’s mobile that he’d stolen out of his gym bag, “you choosing the love of your life over me, I can diffuse my own bomb, thanks.” 

He snapped the texts on Greg’s phone shut and took a pocket knife from Farnon’s bag. 

“Here,” he said, handing it to Sherlock. “Good luck, mate. I’ll use the mirrors in the locker room.”

Sherlock nodded. “Don’t get confused by the reflections.”

Sherlock rounded on John with a fury the moment Stephen left. He peeled his shirt over his head and flung it to the pitch. He dropped to his knees and began working with the wires, counting and reciting rules from a manual he’d downloaded into his mind palace. The only thing that shook worse than his breaths were his hands. 

John took them in his own, careful of the knife. 

“If the time is running out and you know you can’t finish, go. Promise me you’ll go.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared and he glared up at John from beneath his brows, seething. 

“That’s not gonna happen.”

He began working, slicing wires and his shoulders drooping with relief every time he cut one and John didn’t blow up. John was shaking too and steadied himself with a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I lied,” Sherlock said, but only after he focused on the correct wire from a jumble of reds, blacks, and yellows. “You were right the whole time.”

“About what?” John asked evenly, though the tremor in his voice gave him away. 

_Sherlock’s here. He came._

“Everything! Every single sodding thing I said to you about not wanting you, about not loving you was a lie. I verbally abused you, I broke every vow I ever made you except one, I made you _sick._ You’re so fucking thin, John! Jesus, no wonder they could hide so many wires under your jersey.”

The timer was down to seven.

John exhaled. His blood pressure was skipping rope. The emotion in his chest skirted the line between hope and devastation. He should be angry. He should be furious, but what had Stephen said? 

_This is no time to be proud, Watson._

“What did you say?”

“I said you’ve lost a fuck ton of fucking weight, that’s what I said! You nag me about eating and then you let this happen? I swear when this is over I’m going to feed you until you’re as fat as a prepubescent Mycroft!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!”

The timer hit six.

“What’s the one vow you never broke?”

Sherlock looked up, his cyan eyes shimmering against the grey sky and dousing out all the yellow flakes. He stood quickly and crushed John’s lips with his own.

He broke away panting, though they hadn't kissed long. “I will never stop loving you, John Watson. Ever. That’s the vow I made, my permanent deduction. I saw your video. If you don’t wanna be together then— Oh, God, we don’t have time for this!”

Sherlock tore his hands from John’s face and dropped to his knees, taking up the knife once more as he worked with newfound fervor. 

Five minutes. 

“If you don’t want to be together, I understand. What I did was wrong and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but God, do I want it! I want it so bad, John. I’ll never leave you again. I swear I’ll never use again either, and I’ve _never_ said that before because I’ve always known I’d fall off the wagon, and now I know you have no reason to believe me. I’ve completely obliterated your trust in me and there’s no way to get it back except actions and time. I’m going to rehab, the best and most secure Mycroft can find, after Christmas. You can come see me if you like—”

Four minutes.

“—but of course you don’t have to ever see me again if you don’t want to, or we can just be friends. I want you in any capacity in which you will have me. I’ll really try this time! I swear on your life and mine and every ounce of love I have for you that I won’t break into the drug closets. I’ll do the therapy. I’ll take it fucking seriously. I’ll go to _fucking church,_ even though heaven is a ludicrous fantasy, outside of yourself, that I fundamentally—!”

“Sherlock!”

Three minutes. 

Sherlock kept working. He still had several more wires to go. 

This was gonna be a close one. 

He felt John’s hand in his hair but didn’t have the nerve or the time to look up again. He couldn’t see to diffuse the bomb if he had tears in his eyes. 

Focus. Focus. Focus. 

“I forgive you, baby. No matter what.”

Two minutes. 

“... You really didn’t mean any of it? About me not loving you, only loving the idea of someone loving me?”

Sherlock was short with him. “I think our present situation is a testament to the fact that I am _no one’s_ ideal love. You’re the real fucking deal, John Watson. I know that you loved me without question.”

“Love,” said John. “No past tense.”

“I’m almost done! I’m almost done, John. Just hang in there, sugar. I swear I’m almost done!”

Sherlock nearly sliced his own finger off cutting at a group of wires, though not all at once, in a haphazard ripple.

“Which is why,” John continued as if he hadn’t heard him, “I want you to go now. Please, baby, I love you so much. You have everything to offer the world.” 

He was crying silently.

One minute. 

“You didn’t listen to me before, so I’m asking you to now: run. Dying for someone you love when you don’t have to isn’t romantic.”

“We aren’t going to die! I’m almost finished, stop talking like that!”

“Please,” John said quietly, his words almost spirited away by the wind. 

Sherlock took the last wire between his fingers and looked John dead in the eye.

“Where _you_ go, _I_ will go. Where _you_ stay, _I_ will stay, remember?”

He pressed the wire between his thumb and the knife and pulled. 

The timer hit zero, and the whole of Avebury heard a boom. 


	39. East Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure I'll have to go back and edit this later, but okay.
> 
> Here we go.
> 
> We get a bit of John's point of view from the pre-explosion scene, and Anthea has a bad day at work.

John swore if Sherlock ever came back that he would maintain his dignity. He wouldn’t grovel. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t say anything except for “I’m glad you’re back. I hope we can be friends again.” He’d even practiced in front of a mirror. 

But none of the scenarios he imagined had included a bomb on his chest. 

Dignity isn’t so important when you’re about to die.

“I’m almost done! I’m almost done, John. Just hang in there, sugar. I swear I’m almost done!”

Sherlock’s movements became jerky and frantic. John feared he’d kill them both if he kept this up. Sherlock had come for him, had kissed him, had loved him. 

Still loved him. 

Had never stopped.

He’d kill the bugger before it was over. 

_You will,_ he realized. _If you don’t make him leave._

“Which is why I want you to go now,” said John, continuing his own affirmation that he had never stopped loving the man on his knees attempting desperately to save his life. John’s vision blurred. Pieces of the dark-haired boy with the alabaster skin faded into the backdrop of green pitch. Tears streamed down his face. When he spoke, he sounded calm, though the words cracked. 

Surely Sherlock would hear his heartbreak, would understand that he _had to leave._

“I want you to go now. Please, baby. I love you so _much_.”

The universe crumbled around that word: much. 

How much more could they have done? He’d imagined them with a life in London solving crimes, or maybe raising a daughter off the coast of Sussex in the cottage Sherlock sometimes spoke of. He’d imagined himself with grey hair fighting it out in the kitchen over severed torsos in the freezer or at a crime scene in front of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade over what was and what wasn’t an appropriate environment for children when their girl tried to play in the chalk outlines surrounding murder victims. He’d imagined buying a new car in his retirement, a green convertible, only to have Sherlock crash it pursuing a murderer which would be the final nail in the coffin for their long-suffering insurance providers. He’d imagined watching waves crash against the white cliffs as sailboats bobbed precariously on the swelling and receding tides of the Sussex sea. They’d be in front of their fireplace discussing a case, barely aware of the tempest outside except for the dull ache in their aging bones.

How could he see a life flash before his eyes that he’d never even lived?

He’d imagined a life with Sherlock, and he only now realized that he’d never let it go. 

His grief had made him blind.

It didn’t matter if he lived. He would have been a doctor, a father, a good man, but anyone could fill his role. He hoped that someone did. Sherlock could still be happy, could still have the life that John imagined.

He swallowed the sobs threatening to overtake him. “You have everything to offer the world.”

The timer hit one. 

“You didn’t listen to me before, so I’m asking you to now: run. Dying for someone you love when you don’t have to isn’t romantic.”

And Sherlock _did_ love him. Had the Lord answered his prayers only to rip Sherlock from him the moment he was within his grasp?

Maybe his mum hadn’t been wrong. 

Maybe God really was cruel.

“We aren’t going to die! I’m almost finished, quit talking like that!”

John clenched his eyes shut, squeezing out the last of his tears. If Sherlock wasn’t moving, that meant they were going out together. 

God, no. 

No. 

No, no, no, no, no. 

“Please,” he begged desperately, but it wasn’t Sherlock that he was talking to. 

God, it seemed, answered him.

He could see clearly enough now to meet Sherlock’s eyes, devoted and fierce. He held the last wire against the knife under his thumb. 

“Where you go, I will go,” the detective unwittingly quoted the Book of Ruth. “Where you stay, I will stay, remember?”

If those were the only religious words to ever pass his lips, John swore he’d argue with Saint Peter till the final trumpet that not a finer man could be allowed through the gates of heaven. 

Wherever they went, it was together.

Sherlock pulled the last wire, and an explosion shook the earth from every direction. Instead of pulling away, Sherlock buried his face in John’s abdomen, clutching at his hip bones. John fell forward too, folding himself over Sherlock and gathering up every scrap of fabric he could use to pull him closer. 

Slowly, it dawned on them that they weren’t dead. 

_He’s not dead._

John slapped his hand across his mouth and cried openly.

God hadn’t abandoned him. Sherlock wasn’t dead. 

Sherlock shot to his feet and gathered John in his arms, rocking him steadily, smoothing back his sandy hair that had grown long once again during their hiatus from one another. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay. It’s over. I meant it all, I swear that I will never disappoint like that again. I’m sorry. You’re okay, it’s gonna be fine. I love you, _I love you._ ”

Sherlock said all of these things on repeat and so fast that they slurred together till it sounded like a Tibetan mantra, a foreign language meant to calm his own rescinding panic. John only cared for the end of it, because he meant what he’d said too. 

_I forgive you, baby. No matter what._

Sherlock didn’t disappoint him. He’d saved him. 

As far as John was concerned, there was nothing to forgive.

No Hail Marys. No Our Fathers. No Ifs, Ands, or Buts about it. 

His legs gave out and he toppled like he was going to fall on his side. Sherlock caught him and continued muttering into his neck, still the same phrases. 

Aiken House burned to the south behind Sherlock, and in the north in Avebury a steady torrent of smoke swirled in the sky, lost amongst the grey clouds.

John had forgotten all about the fourth bomb planted in the Goalla home. After Sherlock arrived, it hadn’t seemed important. No one should have been there, but a blast of that magnitude likely leveled the eastern outskirts of Avebury. Anyone could have been killed. Shopkeepers, neighbors, people walking their dogs. 

The thought was enough to make him vomit. 

He wretched from Sherlock’s ironclad grasp and crawled to the edge of the pitch. He heaved up endless chokes of water, the only thing he’d been allowed for the last twenty-four hours. When there was nothing left to throw up, Sherlock took the discarded rugby jersey and wiped John’s mouth, uttering soothing words.

Thunder answered lightning and the rain clouds burst above Conan. John was still shirtless and covered in cut wires. His cleats and rugby shorts were his only protection against the elements. The cold water seemed to seep into his skin, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could actually _feel._

It was too much. 

Sherlock draped his coat over John’s back. The rain came down and soaked through his white shirt. “I’m getting you out of here. We’re going to scrape off the semtex and you’ll be okay, I promise.”

When John didn’t respond, Sherlock scooped him from the back of the knees and carried him off the pitch. He could hardly see through the rain. 

“Stephen!” 

Sherlock kicked in the dressing room door. “The building’s still standing. I assume that you’re alive.”

Stephen came out, clad in someone else’s bottom sweats. 

“What happened to your shorts?” John asked through the haze. 

“I fucking shit myself! Didn’t you?” 

Stephen damn near hyperventilated. 

“I threw up,” John offered. Stephen turned green and took it as a cue to dip into a bathroom stall. His retching echoed through the toilets and off the metal lockers.

“Do you need to…?” Sherlock asked, looking down at the bundled boy turning ever paler in his arms. 

“No,” said John. He wanted to protest Sherlock carrying him, but he hadn’t the strength or the wits to compose a solid argument. “There’s nothing left.”

Sherlock’s facial muscles became rigid. His arms tightened around John. 

“Do you need to go to hospital?” he asked, though his calculating eyes betrayed that he’d already made up his mind that he was going to hospital whether he liked it or not. They needed to see Molly anyway.

“Please,” said John. “Please just take me _home._ ”

The way he called their room ‘home,’ the way it shattered on his lips, broke Sherlock’s heart. His eyes softened, and John knew that he had won. 

Neither spoke.

“I’ll call a car for you in front of Baker,” Sherlock called to Stephen. “It’ll take you to Saint Bart’s. Send me updates on Molly’s condition as often as you can.”

Stephen thanked him with a thumbs up and excused himself for a second round in the stall. He hadn’t been kidnapped as long as John, and his strength (and his breakfast) had held out for much longer.

Sherlock stuck to the sidewalks on the long trek back to Baker. The ground was so saturated that his feet would have sunk in the mud if he’d tried to cut across. He couldn’t afford to lose his balance with John, so the longer route through the rain would have to do.

It fell gently about them, freezing but melodic in sound as it pattered against the astronomy tower and flowed like a river under the rain gates. Sherlock scrunched up his shoulders and tried to shelter John beneath the curve of his neck. The boy had fallen asleep in his arms. He was exhausted.

_Or sick._

Sherlock shook off the idea. 

No more worry. He couldn’t stomach worry after today. They were together again, just the two of them against the rest of the world. He wouldn’t worry. He’d be joyful if it fucking killed him. 

Sherlock no longer had a key for Baker and had to wait for someone to open the door. 

It was Philip Anderson. If he caused trouble and woke up John, Sherlock swore he would baritsu, krav maga, and box him into a crater on the moon. 

“Sherlock!” he said. 

Anderson had never referred to Sherlock as anything other than _Holmes_ in his life. 

He ushered him inside, even offering to carry John himself, which Sherlock staunchly refused. Anderson cleared the crowd of students blocking the path to the elevator. The student body didn’t know what to make of him. Some muttered that he was the shooter who’d planted the bombs, others said that he’d snapped after the nasty breakup with John and that he’d bombed Aiken House because that was where Mary Morstan lived. Sherlock didn’t care. They could talk all that they bloody liked, but Anderson was having none of it.

He shouted above the noise.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” 

Anderson slapped Sherlock on the back to where he almost dropped John.

“Sherlock didn’t bomb anything! He saved our lives and the lives of our families. The girls evacuated Aiken House on _his_ orders, and I saw for myself as he disarmed a bomb strapped to John Watson’s chest. Sherlock Holmes isn’t a villain. He’s a hero!”

The whole of Baker fell silent. Anderson _hated_ Sherlock. What was he doing sticking up for him? But nevertheless, he nodded to the onlookers. 

“I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

After the initial silence, other boys began saying it too, until it broke out into a chant, and then an outright cheer. 

“My grandma was in that stadium!” 

“My parents and my sisters were in the front row. The baby is only four months old!”

“If he hadn’t pulled out that gun I would have ruddy stayed!”

“It destroyed the top five floors of Aiken House! Can you imagine what it would have done with two of them if he hadn’t cut the wires?”

He heard it reaching its crescendo as the elevator doors closed. 

_“I believe in Sherlock Holmes! I believe in Sherlock Holmes!”_

The cheers faded as he rose to the seventh floor. He started laughing, careful not to shake his chest. He gazed lovingly at John growing heavy in his arms. 

Who’d have ever thought he’d have a fan club thanks to Philip bloody Anderson? 

“You must really be out of it to have missed that, huh?”

He lifted John enough to plant a kiss on his burning forehead.

“We could have quibbled about my ‘insufferable ego.’”

The doors opened and he met a similar round of cheers from the displaced girls of Aiken House. Kitty Riley was among them, and even she applauded. 

It was nice to see that her feet had healed. 

If the lads were among the throng, he didn’t see them. Molly was the only Aiken House girl, and he supposed every other hall had been placed on lockdown. 

Stupid, really.

How did the police know there weren’t other bombs about? There weren’t, of course. But they didn’t know that.

Their room was exactly the same. Even the murder wall was still intact despite John’s constant protests that he hated it. When Sherlock left, he figured it’d be the first thing to go.

The room was cleaner with only the mini-fridge dusty, and aside from Sherlock’s missing articles and lab equipment, not a thing had been altered except for the pictures on the nightstand. 

Those were new.

Photos of the lads, the girls, and of Harry and Mrs. Watson crowded the tiny table, but the one that’d been handled the most, the one with the least amount of dust and the greatest amount of fingerprint smudges, was one of Sherlock. It was the only picture of him on the whole table, but John had included him, had kept him nearby. 

He smiled.

He remembered John taking it during the Light the Night festival. Their names were written on their hands in Arabic, but they held each other’s fingers up for the camera anyway, careful not to smudge the henna. John was bundled in his old hoodie and Sherlock was wearing John’s jumper. Another thing he owed him since it’d been cut off of him at the hospital.

Their breath clouded the air and Sherlock was smiling. Why? He couldn’t remember. Probably because John was smiling and there needn’t be another reason in the world.

Sherlock pulled back the covers and removed John’s wet clothing. After he removed the remnants of the bomb, he stripped him bare and started pilfering through the drawers. Even the sock index was untouched. 

_My Boyfriend is an Iguana._

He’d kept that?

He slipped flannel pajama bottoms on John and rolled on a pair of his fuzziest socks. The space heater had apparently broken or lost a row with John’s foot, but Sherlock fixed it and tucked the boy into bed. 

It wouldn’t do for John to wake up without food. Hadn’t he promised to feed him, to make him fat? How was John to believe his other promises if he dropped the ball on the simplest one!

Sherlock skidded into the hallway, his body still visible through his soaked shirt, and raced into the common room.

This, of course, startled the girls who were under the impression that Sherlock running could only mean Armageddon. 

“Oh my God! Is there a bomb in this building too?”

Shrill cries echoed across the packs of carefully divided cliques. Apparently, Tyler had let them in shortly before he and the other lads did the skedaddle, and a few members of the other houses had gotten locked inside before the shutdown. 

“No,” said Sherlock, leaping on the coffee table to speak above the panic. “This is hard. Hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I need your help.”

Sherlock Holmes thinking something was _difficult?_ Asking for _assistance?_

“What can we do!” cried Olivia Spencer. 

Sherlock muttered the beginning of a sentence, but no one could hear him.

“Talk louder!” said Amanda and Abby.

The common room fell quiet. Everyone was on the edge of their seats. 

“Oh, bloody hell, alright!” Sherlock spat, his temper foul. “My boyfriend and I just got back together. Everyone is going home for Christmas tomorrow and…”

He swallowed. 

“I don’t think I can be apart from him again so soon, but it’ll be his family’s first Christmas without his dad and I’m sure he’ll want to be there for them. He’s sentimental like that.”

“And you aren’t?” asked Irene Adler, lounging and openly vaping on the nearest armchair. 

Sherlock’s face burned when he saw her. 

Now would be a good opportunity to get rid of the box, at least. 

“The point is,” continued Sherlock. “John’s weight has dropped drastically in a very short period of time, and I want to support him in his recovery like he’s supported me in mine. Now I don’t mean to imply anything because Molly Hooper would beat my ass if I did, but you see, I can’t find Lestrade. Do _any_ of you know how to cook?”

_______________________________________________________________________

It wasn’t easy. After the bombing, the police closed the roads, so calling carryout or delivery wasn’t an option. Shortly after Sherlock made it to Baker, the campus went on lockdown with MI6 agents as monitors. Even Anthea wasn’t answering his calls. Mycroft likely had her managing the media while he edited files on Jim Moriarty that could actually be released to the public. 

They couldn’t break into the cafeteria either, and it was the day before Christmas holiday so nothing much was lying around anyway, but before it was over, the girls had bummed enough ingredients off of the floor’s residents to perform what Sherlock could only describe as alchemy over a potato, two carrots, Stephen’s tofu bacon, a box of pasta, and a bag of chicken nuggets. 

True witchcraft if he’d ever seen it.

Using only a bunsen burner and Stephen’s wok, the girls worked tirelessly until they had what smelled and tasted like Italian. 

“I found dessert!” said Olivia, holding up a box of Golden Gaytime ice cream cones. 

“We better put those back,” said Sherlock. “Brett is sensitive about his Australian sweeties.”

“But I didn’t find it in Brett’s room,” said Olivia. “I found it in Greg’s.”

Oh, ho! What’s this?

Brett had written that he thought _Eddy_ was eating his snacks, but Greg was the snake in their garden?

The blackmail was too good.

“Alright then,” said Sherlock. “Then the cookie-crumble ice lolly is what we shall have!”

He proudly assembled John’s meal, thanking Amanda and Abby who’d led the incantations (“Bickering, not incantations. Quit being dramatic!” Olivia had said, but he ignored her. Only John was allowed to call him dramatic.)

“Our pleasure,” said Abby. 

“You caught our stalker.”

“And evacuated us out of Aiken.”

“Besides,” Amanda volleyed, tugging back her sleeve to reveal a pride flag tattoo. “I remember this one here cooking for me before I taught her. Blooming awful, it was. I’d sure hate to stomach that after a bomb threat.”

“Hey!”

Amanda kissed Abby softly on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. She’s much improved now.”

She handed him the plate. 

“Love is love. Good luck.”

He smiled. “Love is love.”

When Sherlock made it back to the room, John was still asleep, though he’d become fitful in his dreams, tossing and throwing out his arms.

Sherlock sat the plate and ice cream on top of the mini-fridge. 

He smoothed the back of his hand across John’s forehead. He didn’t feel as feverish now, so getting out of the weather had done him some good. Still, he’d recover faster with fluids. 

Sherlock snapped his fingers.

Tea! Yes, John always made him tea. That would do. Sherlock searched the armoire, but John’s tins were empty. Even his bottled waters were empty. He found just enough coffee for a single cup but wasn’t sure how to make it. Sherlock had never _made_ his own anything before.

He opened the lid on the coffee maker and saw that John had put paper in it. 

Odd. 

He took that out and poured the coffee inside. He supposed that the water went in somewhere. Poured down the back? No, with that combination of heat and moisture, it’d be a breeding ground for mold. Unsanitary! He decided that the coffee maker was broken and that he’d simply have to take hot water from the sink, pour it over the grounds, and hope for the best. Did people add sugar to these things? Well, if they did, they were out. He’d use honey. He always used honey in his tea. 

Sherlock went out to the sink to follow through with his plan, but when he returned, John shot straight up in bed hyperventilating, his eyes wild. He kept saying, “It’s not! You’re wrong!”

Hot water splashed across the foot of the bed as Sherlock threw down the pot, cracking it. 

“It’s okay! It’s okay!”

He ran his hands up and down John’s shoulders, but the boy wouldn’t be calmed. 

“Look at me. Look at me, John. Breathe when I do. Remember that 4/6/8 thing you taught me? There, that’s it. You’re doing so great.”

He looked at Sherlock like he couldn’t be real and crushed him to his chest. 

“It’s you? It’s you, isn’t it? Tell me something stupid. Tell me who Madonna is or what’s the center of the universe.”

“What? You know I couldn’t answer anything like that!”

“Oh, thank _God.”_

John held him as tight as he could, all the while with Sherlock rubbing at his back.

What had they done to him? Had they tortured him? There was no one left for him to kill except Mary, and he suspected that Anthea had already finished the job. His body shook, but this time from rage. 

The world would pay for this. 

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. 

John shook his head, still buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “Say you’re not leaving. Say you’ll stay. Why is everything always my fault?”

“It isn’t your fault!” 

Sherlock didn’t even know what he was talking about. 

“I’m staying. I’m not leaving you. I’ll… I’ll go home with you for Christmas!”

John stopped shaking.

“Unless you don’t want me to?” said Sherlock.

Truth be told, he wanted to show John Musgrave Hall, to proudly declare him as his boyfriend for all the Holmes clan to see. They couldn’t do that at John’s house, and they’d probably have to attend _church,_ but for John?

Anything.

“Do you… think that’s a good idea?” asked John.

Sherlock didn’t know, but at the moment, he was willing to walk across the hot coals.

“Yes,” he said. “Depending on whatever story Mycroft and the media tell your mum. By now news of the bombings has spread across England. I won’t be able to hide it from your family this time, I don’t think. Not with Sholto involved. But no one is trying to kill us anymore.”

He smiled tensely and kissed the length of John’s nose. 

It didn’t matter if _he_ thought things would be okay. It mattered if _John_ thought he thought that things would be okay, so best put his three weeks' worth of acting to good use. 

He went to get John’s food.

“I asked some friends to make you—”

John caught his forearms. He looked terrified.

“Hey,” said Sherlock. “I mean it. You’re safe now.”

He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

What if John had changed his mind? He’d been under duress when he’d said he forgave him earlier. John was a Catholic. Catholics believe that they have to forgive people if they want to go to heaven, right?

“Sherlock,” said John. “I don’t want us lying to one another anymore.”

“Of course,” nodded Sherlock. “I’ll give you nothing but the truth from here on out.”

John tightened his hold on his arm. His throat bobbed.

“Before I … say anything, we have to talk. What we did, what you did the last time we were in this bed together, it wasn’t okay.”

Sherlock sat on the bed in question. 

Whatever was coming, he deserved it. 

“I know why you left, but you didn’t even talk to me about it first, and then you just…”

He was having a hard time saying it.

“I know,” said Sherlock. “I have no excuse. Do you… would it be better for your mental health if I stayed in a different r—?”

“NO!” 

Sherlock flinched.

Then, quieter, “No,” John sighed. “It wasn’t my first time, but it was my first time with you. I just… I need to know you won’t do that again. I need to know that the next time a bad guy threatens me, that you’ll talk to me before leaving.”

“I’m not leaving again.”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT!”

John hadn’t meant to shout, but he was an inch away from Sherlock’s face. 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he said, his aggressive posture going lax. “I’m sorry. Listen, like you said, it’ll just take some time.”

Sherlock scowled, though not at John. He scowled out the window at the lightning and the rain and cursed himself. 

“I _do_ know it, John,” Sherlock whispered. 

If he spoke any louder than that, he was afraid he’d lose it too. 

His breaths came out staccato. 

“I _hate_ what I did to you. I hated writing that fucking letter when all I wanted was to stay beside you, and I hated it even more when you _came for me._ The things I _said to you!_ And I tried to think of it like an experiment, like how far I could push you before you left, but I couldn’t. I was trying to keep you safe but at the same time, I didn’t want you to leave. Doesn’t that sound awful? I needed to make you hate me, but all I did was make you hate yourself. I can’t even believe you stayed around as long as you did.”

_This isn’t going to work. We’re going to fall apart after all. Stupid, thinking I could keep him after what I did._

“I’m so sorry.” The words were full of air. “I accused you of abusing me, but I was the one hurting you. I _missed_ you. I missed you every single day. I both looked forward to and dreaded the days when you’d come over. I loved being near you, hearing your voice, but I hated what I said to you. I made you believe those … I made you believe that I never… ”

John slipped his arms around Sherlock’s front, holding him from behind. 

“I forgive you,” he said again, “and as hard as this is to believe, none of that is what I’m talking about.”

“Then… what?” asked Sherlock. 

He needed to make this better. He _had_ to make things right. 

John squeezed him once, then forced him to turn around. He took hold of Sherlock’s hands. 

His mouth hung open for several moments before he finally said, “We are _not_ safe, Sherlock. The person who tried to kill us is still alive.”

He stiffened. 

But John was wrong. Mary was in custody, sure, but Seb and Moriarty were indisputably dead. 

“Before you say anything,” interrupted John, “I want to be clear that I love you and that I want to be with you for the rest of my life. Think about that before you do anything stupid.”

John narrowed his eyes. 

“We’re supposed to be a team. We’re supposed to work together. You never made me hate myself. I started out that way, but after you left, I didn’t have a choice. I had to learn to love the person I was living with: me. It was like accepting my sexuality all over again, only much, much harder.”

He took a sharp breath. 

“Why didn’t you think that I could handle it? You didn’t even give me a choice. I’ve worked through everything else, and I’m happier and healthier because of it, but I _can’t_ work through that. Please just tell me.”

Sherlock forgot about the looming threat. 

“It wasn’t that I thought you couldn’t handle it. It was because I couldn’t risk you!”

“It’s my life, Sherlock! I can risk it how I like!”

“Your own death is something that happens to everybody else. Once it’s over, it’s not you who’ll miss it!” His chest was heaving. “I will never let you die, John Watson.”

John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and leaned their foreheads together. 

“You don’t think I feel the same way about you?” he said, his lips brushing haphazardly against Sherlock’s own. “We’re supposed to stand together come hell or high water. You can’t just put me in a lifeboat and stay and swim on your own. That’s not how this works. You’re not Jesus Christ, remember? Get over your savior complex.”

Sherlock didn’t know why John was smiling, but before he knew it, he was too. He wrapped his arms around his waist and breathed him in. Oh, how he loved him. He was so close to his lips.

“And here I thought,” said Sherlock, his brain barely firing, “that you were making a clever Catholic joke about me not walking on water.”

“I don’t have the room to talk,” said John. “That’s how Small caught me. I went after him in the pool. Forgot I couldn’t swim.”

Sherlock blinked. 

“Are you… _Are you serious?”_

“See, Holmes?” said John. “We need each other. As Molly said, we’re just two dumbasses in love. It takes two of us just to function.”

“She might be onto something,” said Sherlock, leaning in for the kiss, but John stopped him with an open palm. 

He looked pained. “Remember everything that I said just now,” said John. “Save it in your mind palace, please.”

“John,” said Sherlock, ticking his mouth at his own inside joke. “I remember everything about you. I couldn’t forget you if I tried. Believe me. You are every minute detail never to be put in my mind's recycle bin awaiting deletion. You have a whole wing and your own separate postal code in here.” He tapped at his chest.

He thought maybe John would laugh at that, but he didn’t. 

“Sherlock,” he said. “The person behind Moriarty… It’s Eurus.”

Sherlock’s face fell and he sat up. 

“Eurus?” 

It wasn’t possible. Mycroft had her on an island with a suicide chip planted in her spinal cord. There was no way to remove it. If she set so much as one foot outside of her cell, BOOM. She’d make today’s bombs look like Christmas crackers. 

“It was her, Sherlock. Mary told me so. She said Eurus had a _cage_ waiting for you, that Eurus promised to brainwash me into loving Mary. I told her that wouldn’t be brainwashing; that’d be a lobotomy,” John spat. “Moriarty escaped from Sherrinford on Eurus’s orders. She promised to give him Europe. She doesn't want it for herself. She only wants you.”

He clutched Sherlock’s shoulders. “You can make your own choice now like I wish you’d allowed me to make, but I don’t want there to be any more lies between us. I lied about loving you before, then you lied about the addictions and I lied about knowing about them, and then you left. We’re pretty tied, but I don’t want to be the bigger liar here. You deserve to know.”

Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled. “But, if Moriarty knew Mycroft, then that means he’s been visiting Sherrinford and he… _He knew about this?”_ He was flabbergasted. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Because he’s like you?” deadpanned John. “And he thinks he can work alone because no one compares to his massive intellect?”

Sherlock snapped out of it and looked back at John.

“It’ll be dangerous.”

“Undoubtedly.” 

“We probably won’t make it, either of us.”

“Probably wouldn’t be a Holmes family reunion if that wasn’t on the table, but okay.”

“I’m serious, John! Eurus murdered my childhood best friend when we were seven years old just for playing without her. Can you imagine what she’d do to you?”

“And you?” John asked. “Do you expect me to, what? Sit idly by while Eurus locks you up on an island in the middle of a cold sea? You can run off and try that ‘Alone is what I have. Alone protects me’ bullshit, but just know I’ll always be right behind you ready to cover your six, because that’s what friends do!”

John was huffing, absolutely spent on the last of his anger-fueled adrenaline. Suddenly he swayed, all the fight gone out of him. 

“Wait, wait!” 

Sherlock caught him and laid him on his pillow. 

“Don’t fall asleep again I’m just going to throw your food in the microwave and the ice cream in the fridge. I’ll make you some coffee while it warms up, okay? In the meantime, I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”

Sherlock scrambled about the room, he gave John the water and then went about making his experimental coffee, diluting it with lukewarm water and spiking it with several teaspoons worth of honey.

He propped him up under his arm. 

“Here you are, John. A nice hot cup of coffee.”

John, a little out of it, felt the mug in his hands.

“It’s cold.”

“Nice cup of coffee.”

John took a sip, making an awful face and scraping at his tongue. 

“It’s horrible!”

“Cup of coffee?”

“I’m not even sure it is coffee,” said John. 

Sherlock frowned. John was making this “tender, loving care” thing really difficult.

“Well, unless you keep your dad’s ashes in a tin by your shoes, I can assure you, it is coffee.”

John’s face went totally ashen, and he almost dropped the mug. 

Sherlock reflected on what he said and stammered to apologize. 

“OH, I am so, so, so sorry! That was a bad joke.”

“Sherlock,” he said as serious as sin, “I _do_ keep a bit of my dad’s ashes in a tin.”

Sherlock stopped breathing, then he flipped out.

“ARE YOU FUCKING FOR REAL?”

He dumped the coffee in the wastebasket and ran for the machine, scraping out bits of what he assumed were Hamish Watson, when he heard John absolutely _dying_ of laughter behind him.

Sherlock looked between John and the damp chunks in his hand and realized that he’d been had. He threw the coffee grounds on the carpet in protest.

“You cock! I knew it!”

“No, you, you di-didn’t!” John scarcely choked out. “The look on your face!”

“John Hamish, I’m going to kill you!”

“Will you put me in the coffee maker too? What were you planning? Did you really think you’d given me my _dad_ in that hideous drink?”

John fell out of the bed.

The microwave tinged and smoke spilled out of it. God, had he managed to burn dinner as well? 

“You’re dehydrated, so I’ll forgive this childish behavior! Now get back in bed!”

This was the man that he’d chosen to love, and John couldn’t wait for the future. 

_____________________________________________________________________

Anthea kicked off her stilettos and turned the corner, nicking a rifle off a guard. She held down her earpiece and hiked up her pencil skirt so she could run faster. 

“Lock it down! Lock it down!” she commanded. 

The sky doors for the heliport opened anyway, and a small chopper took off carrying Viveka Vynnyk, or Mary Morstan as she was calling herself these days. She held a knife on the pilot. She’d broken out with nothing but. 

Anthea screamed above the sirens and the chopper, signaling with her hands. 

“Open fire!” 

“But ma’am, she’s one of our—”

Anthea unloaded on Mary herself, and the other agents and officers followed suit. 

The bullets ricocheted off the steel, damaging the chopper, but not before Mary could escape. 

“Goddammit!” 

Anthea never allowed herself to curse. She was all business when she worked, but this time it was different. This time it was Vynnyk. 

“Put a squadron in the air! Drones, anything. I want that Comanche shot down!”

“We can’t ma’am.”

Anthea took the officer by the throat. It was the same man who’d tried to argue with her that Vynnyk was one of their own.

“I told you to lock it down,” she said, low and calm. “How’d that port open?”

His face turned blue, but he made no move to answer. 

“I see,” said Anthea. She dropped him and asked for the next officer in charge. 

“Agent Woodworth has been compromised. Take him to the ship psych for eval. Hold him in the brig and only post guards you trust.”

“Yes, Agent Khan.”

“The rest of you,” she barked, “Bring me Viveka Vynnyk.”

She stalked down the hallway, struggling to maintain her composure and not punch the paneling in the walls. Vynnyk escaped her. Vynnyk was her fault. She’d trained her. 

“Agent Khan,” a young lance corporal saluted her. “Agent Khan, Colonel Moss reports that Agent Vynnyk stole something out of your personal quarters, ma’am.”

Anthea rounded. “What did she steal?”

The lance corporal handed her a report, and when Anthea read it, she had to lean against the wall. 

Vynnyk wasn’t just after Sherlock anymore. 

She wanted to kill Mycroft, and Anthea Khan would never let that happen.


	40. Merry Christmas, Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Title comes from The Carpenters)
> 
> SO, this little experiment is basically "If Anna Dromeda wrote a two-part Christmas special."

Molly lay in a hospital bed, a bit groggy from the painkillers, but surrounded by the people she loved most. Her mother and father were on the way, but in the meantime, her uncle, Professor Challenger, managed her affairs. 

Strictly speaking,  _ only _ Professor Challenger should have been allowed in the room. However, the nurses, long acquainted with Sherlock Holmes and his associates, looked the other way.

There’s enough trouble caring for patients without adding him to the mix. 

Molly drew a flashcard from the pile.

“Okay,” she said, reading the card. “Evolution is a commie plot to undermine Christianity and aid the gay agenda.” 

Sherlock’s eye twitched. His mouth actually parted at this one, a knee-jerk reaction to years of heedlessly correcting the idiocy of others.

The boys leaned in, certain that this would be the one to make him snap.

John held a picture of Cynthia Watson’s face in front of Molly’s. Experimentation found that he could hold his tongue pretty effortlessly for his friends, but for John’s mother… 

“That sentence is a convoluted mess of absolute bullshit! The world was  _ not _ created in seven days because science is actually built on logic and reasoning, whereas your religious dogma is nothing but a fairy tale meant to make you feel better about the fact your life is going to end and no more will happen than you’re taken to a special room and burned!”

Sherlock was absolutely heaving. 

Whoops. 

John cringed, holding the chocolate Wispas just out of reach. 

“I love you so much. Are you sure you wanna—?”

“No, no,” cut Sherlock. “We agreed to Pavlov me, and I agreed to the terms.” He turned to Ryan and braced himself. “Do it.”

Ryan held his lucky drawers under Sherlock’s nose. 

Greg, on the other hand, held back John. 

“Baby, it’s not worth it! We can—!”

Sherlock pushed the drawers away with the end of a pencil. Ryan didn’t know what John was so worried about, being desensitized to the smell himself, and Sherlock was holding his breath anyway.

“Would you rather I exploded on that beastly woman or suffered a few moments of intense revulsion?” He cocked his head then, shrugging like an idea had occurred to him. “One is as well as the other, I suppose. Potato/Potatoe.”

Maybe John should have defended his mother. After all, Sherlock compared her to rancid underwear, but on the other hand… 

“Okay, let’s try another one.”

Stephen drew a card and shuddered. 

“I feel like a fucker just reading this,” he said. “What if I want to run for public office someday?”

“Just read the damn card.”

Stephen nodded. “Homosexuals are an— Jesus motherfucker, does your mum really  _ say _ shit like this? — Homosexuals are an abomination before God.”

John nodded. “Heard that one my whole life.”

“Ghastly!” exclaimed Greg, squirming in the uncomfortable hospital chair. “No wonder you were so freaked out. Can’t you just make up an excuse to go to Northumberland?”

“I didn’t have time to get her used to the idea,” shrugged John. “And it is the first Christmas since dad died. Now that Uncle James is in jail, if I don’t go, it’ll be just Mum and Harry.”

“Poor Harry.”

John  _ did  _ feel a little defensive at that one. 

“My mum isn’t a total monster. She’s just a homophobe.”

“John,” said Tyler, like he was talking to an idiot, “ _ you’re  _ a homo.”

“A Homosapien!” said Eddy, holding a sleeping Eliza in his lap while he downed his third energy drink. He and Brett had to catch a plane for Brisbane in a few hours, so he needed all the caffeine he could get.

“I know it sounds twisted,” John sighed. “But in her own messed-up way, she truly believes that by being, you know, that she’s keeping my soul out of hell. She doesn't know that she’s wrong.”

“I didn’t know that chocolate milk didn’t come from a brown cow,” said Brett, “but I learned! I didn’t know my girlfriend respected the viola, but now I keep my hilarious truths to myself. And do you know why, John?” 

Brett leaned in. “Because I love Hilary more than I love my own prejudices, even if I deeply, deeply, earth’s-core-level-deep disagree with her.”

Hilary’s parents had spirited her away with armed guards. Brett hadn’t even a chance to say goodbye, so he was in a particularly foul mood. 

John crossed his arms and dug his nails into his skin. 

“I don’t know if you guys just don’t understand, or if I’m too close to the situation.”

“Both,” said Sherlock. “But your mum really is a b…”

Ryan held the drawers threateningly close.

“... bit of a trial. Yes. A bit of a trial.”

John rewarded him with a break of Wispa. 

“Okay,” said Mike. “Why don’t we switch tactics? We know that Sherlock has the ability to keep his mouth shut for his own sake, but I think we all know that he is irrationally protective of one thing.”

Everyone looked at John.

“What? What could you possibly say that’s worse than what’s written on these?” said John, waving the stack.

“John,” said Mike, in a heightened voice and holding Cynthia’s picture over his own face. “You’re a worthless son. I don’t respect your panic attacks and you haven’t any balls at all, you...” Mike hesitated, “...  _ faggot _ .”

Sherlock almost rose out of his chair, but Ryan restrained him.

“Down boy. It’s just a simulation.”

“He can’t do this,” said Molly, shaking her head from the hospital bed. “Sherlock’s not ready.”

“But I have to be!” he said. “I’m going to rehab after Christmas. This’ll be the only time John and I get to spend together. Besides, if I play the part well enough, maybe after Christmas mass, she’ll allow me to take John up to Northumberland for the remainder of the holiday.”

“I’m having a party in Wales,” Ryan interjected. “We could all get together for New Years' if you wanted. You could use that as an excuse too. Besides, I’d like you all close after… after Mary.”

The group nodded. 

Ryan was taking the betrayal well. 

On the outside, anyway.

“Hell, I’m game,” said Brett, and Eddy agreed too, already whipping out his phone to adjust their flight plans. 

Anything that got them back to their English roses faster. 

“I’ll ask Betty,” said Mike. “But what if John’s mum says no?”

“She won’t,” vowed Sherlock. “I owe John, and all of you, for the trouble I caused by leaving you out of my plans. I promise I’ll… I will  _ endeavor  _ to be the perfect house guest.”

“A straight, God-fearing house guest,” said Molly. “Not to mention pleasant. Sherlock, I’m only saying this because I love you, but those are three things you most certainly are  _ not. _ ”

He frowned. “I convinced John that I didn’t love him. I have no doubts I can sell anything.”

The boys and Molly looked at one another.

Finally, she was assuaged. “Alright,” she said. “But only if you’re sure. We just got over one crisis. I don’t think I have it in me to drag you through another.”

Sherlock hung his head. “I know.” He looked at John tapping his foot anxiously and glancing at the doorway. He could tell he was thinking about taking a drag. “I also have to help John put on the holiday pounds and quit smoking.”

He snatched the boy’s arm and slapped a few of his own Nicorette patches on his wrist. 

“We agreed we were going to quit,” said Sherlock. “Welcome to the detox club.”

Later that evening Eddy wished Eliza a rather sordid and PG-13 rated goodbye. Brett took him by the back of the trousers and booted him in a waiting car. It was the first in a long line of vehicles waiting to take the young heirs home. 

Eliza leaned in the window. “If I find you with this Sheila person, not even Holmes shall solve your death.”

“Lizzy baby,” Eddy halfway crawled out the window with Brett clinging at the waist. “Sheila is just slang for girl! Nobody even uses it anymore. Brett was only joking!”

“Drive,” Brett ordered the chauffeur. “If he falls, he falls.”

“ELIZA HARDGRAVE!” he shouted as the car sped away. “I LO—!”

The honking semi drowned out his words and Brett just barely tugged him in in time. He was one accident away from a fly on a windshield. 

Eliza loaded in her own car with Dorian waiting inside. “Would you like to follow him to the airport?” he asked. 

“No need,” said Eliza, sliding in and accepting a flute of champagne. “He has said it many times with his violin.”

The chauffeur opened Mike’s door for him.

“You will let us know at the first sign of trouble, won’t you, Holmes?” Mike loaded into the car shrugging off his hat and scarf. “You said yourself that it was best John hide in plain sight till university.”

“I can handle it, Stamford,” drolled Sherlock. “I won’t mess up what you worked so hard to build.”

Though he rolled his eyes, Sherlock smiled. 

“I know you won’t,” said Mike. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

He nodded. “See you in the new year.”

“Not that long, Holmesie. We’ve still got the eve!”

Mike’s car sped away, leaving only Tyler, Ryan, Greg, and Sherlock’s in the line-up.

Tyler stood nervously fiddling with his hands and shifting on his feet. Every time he made like he was getting in the car, he popped up like he was getting out of it.

“For God’s sake, man,” said Ryan. “What’s got your knickers in a twist? Did you forget to kiss Nurse Puglish goodbye?”

The mention of the ghoulish nurse did nothing for him.

“Gellert,” said Tyler, straightening his back and finally releasing his vice-grip on the car door. “I know that you’re upset about Mary, or Vynnyk, or whatever her name is, but you didn’t deserve that, mate. You didn’t.”

Ryan’s smirk faltered, but he plastered it back on. 

“Oh, you know a man with my game won’t stay down long, Briggs. There are plenty of other honeys in the sea.”

“Don’t joke. Just this once, I want to talk to you seriously.”

Ryan’s posture stiffened in alarm.

If the word  _ coincidence  _ was banned in Sherlock and John’s household, then the word  _ serious  _ was downright illegal between Ryan and Tyler. 

“Tye, it isn’t a big deal. Mary used me and it hurt, but it’s okay. You must’ve dated a dozen girls in every house in the time that Mary and I were together, and it wasn’t that long. If you can get over all of them that easy, forgetting Mary will be a walk in the park.”

“But I didn’t care about any of those girls!” said Tyler. 

Ryan looked puzzled. “Then why’d you date them? I’ve known you for six years and I’ve never seen you date anyone.”

“Because I was trying to—!” The red drained out of Tyler’s face. All the fight went out of him and it made him look smaller. 

John never really thought about how his friends looked. After a while, when you look at people you see their personalities and not their bodies, but with Ryan and Tyler acting so out of character, he saw them as strangers. 

Tyler, tan and lanky with white-blond hair stood about half a foot shorter than Ryan with his black skin, stout build, and teeming curls. Ryan’s parents came from the glamorous world of actors and red carpets. Tyler’s parents owned affluent, but practical law firms. The two couldn’t have been more different on paper, but John thought he saw something there.

A bigger difference that mattered more.

The way Tyler looked when the slightly more in shape Ryan carried him to the nurse after a brutal workout, the way Tyler lingered whenever Ryan was in the showers and they bantered in the stalls about nothing in particular. Something about it reminded John of him and Sherlock in the early months.

“Forget it!” snapped Tyler. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You seem more bothered than me.”

“I’m worried about you! She  _ hurt  _ you, Rye. You think I don't care about that?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t care about your trail of broken hearts.”

“Goddammit, I’m the only one with a broken—!”

Ryan straightened. “Oh, shit. Oh, man, I know what this is about.”

“You do?”

He took Tyler by the shoulder. “Mate, you _ liked  _ Mary? I never would have dated her if I’d known. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Tyler shook, his jaw trembling as he ground his teeth, his habit on the rare occasions his mother’s Irish temper got the best of his blood. 

“ARE YOU  _ BLOODY _ SERIOUS?”

Ryan staggered back with his hands up in defense, bewildered once more. “I don’t  _ want _ to be serious at all! You’re the one who started it!”

“I don’t like Mary! I never wanted Mary, you pillock!”

Christ, they  _ did _ remind John of him and Sherlock. He cast the side-eye at his boyfriend who was thinking the same thing.

“Should we sneak into our own car?” whispered Sherlock.

“Not on your life. I wanna see where this goes.”

“Well, if you don’t want her, then why do you bloody care so much!” volleyed Ryan.

“I don’t care about her! I care about you!”

Tyler flinched at his own words, cursing that he’d said them. 

This, of course, flew over Ryan’s head.

“Tyler, I’m okay. I’m fine. I have you guys. There’ll be other girls.”

Tyler’s forehead wrinkled and his mouth fell open. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “There’ll be other girls.”

He turned for the car and jerked his chin for the chauffeur to get inside himself. No sense anyone waiting on him to make up his mind in such weather. It looked as though he might really leave, but then he stared at John and Sherlock holding hands to his left. 

Something snapped within him. 

“I don’t want Mary,” he said, stalking up to Ryan once again. “Just like you don’t want me.”

His head dropped. He studied his shoes. 

“Not like I want you.”

If Ryan didn’t get it before, he  _ hella  _ got it now. 

He’d never looked so stunned in his life. 

“Tye,” he hardly whispered. 

“I know you’re not gay,” Tyler looked up. “I don’t want to go my whole life knowing that I never told you. I don’t want us to be weird, I don’t want to throw this at you when you’re in pain, but… don’t let Mary be the standard, Rye. There are still plenty of people out there who can and do love you.”

He got in the car. “See you around.”

“Tyler, wait!”

But the car was already speeding off. 

Ryan loaded in his like a man possessed. “Step on it, Siegfried!”

Greg let out a low whistle as the two limousines pulled away, the second fishtailing on ice. “Jesus. What do you make of that? Ryan isn’t gay. What’ll happen to their friendship?”

“It’ll survive,” John shrugged. “Or it won’t. At worst, we’ll be there for Tyler when he asks us.”

Sherlock didn’t comment, not straight away.

“I don’t know, Lestrade,” he said, squeezing John’s hand. “I seem to recall a pretty similar situation.”

Their own limo pulled to the curb. Stephen was still up with Molly waiting to meet her parents and invite them to his new home, a two-story Tudor-style house courtesy of the British government.

Sherlock opened the door for John, the scent of a catered dinner wafting in from the table inside. “Your parents are from Nottingham, are they not?” asked Sherlock. 

John nearly tripped into the car. “They are? How do I not know this!”

Greg shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about my Grandpa being the bloke to always respond to your noise complaints.”

“ _ Jerome?”  _ said John.  _ “Officer Jerry _ is your  _ granddad?” _

“His last name is literally on his shield, John. Sherlock is right. You are dense.”

“Do visit us, won’t you?” said Sherlock, shoving the shell-shocked John in the limo. “It’ll make it so much easier if Cynthia sees an upstanding member of the community standing alongside John as a friend.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “You just want me to act as a buffer between you and John’s mum, don’t you?”

“Guilty!” sang Sherlock. He ducked in the car himself, banging on the roof. “Merry Christmas, Lestrade.”

He smiled. “Merry Christmas, Holmes.”

Greg breathed in the cold December air as his own car (an uber, nothing as fancy as a limousine) pulled up to collect him. But as he studied the car, he hesitated to get in. It looked like a Mercedes. 

_ What kind of Mercedes owner moonlights as an uber?” _

The passenger window rolled down. He leaned over and saw a woman in dark glasses and spilling hair gathered beneath a baseball cap. He wouldn’t have recognized her at all if not for the hooked nose and serious expression.

_ “Anthea?” _

“That’s Father Christmas to you,” she deadpanned. “Get in the back. I brought you a gift.”

He opened the rear door, and to his surprise, he found none other than Mycroft Holmes, dressed like an average man in a Doctor Who jumper sans umbrella and sipping a spice orange latte from Caffe Nero.

“Hello,” he greeted with one last swig of his drink, “Mr. Lestrade.”

Mycroft tossed the cup away dramatically, tousled his hair, and just when Greg thought Mycroft was going in for the kiss, the arsehole sprayed him in the face with an aerosol can.

“Sir, was that  _ really _ necessary?”

Greg popped off maybe a single insult, but then he swayed and fell into Mycroft’s waiting arms, blacked out.

“Perhaps not,” admitted Mycroft. “I just want to be here when he wakes up this time.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Knightsbridge, London

December 24th, 2015

It wasn’t cold enough to snow that year. 

Anthea sat before her open balcony door, watching as the freezing rain ran in sheets off the roof and spilled into the overflowing flower pots lining the railing. She’d tried so hard all summer, had rallied in the fall, but when winter came, she didn’t even take Evelyn’s plants inside. They were long dead anyway.

Just like her. 

What kind of bitch kills cacti?

Maybe it wasn’t cold enough to snow, but it was damn close to freezing. Nevertheless, Anthea turned off the heat and sat drinking in the open air, a bottle of Teeling pressed to her lips. She never drank, had never even tried beer before, yet now whiskey warmed her belly. It was the last in the whole flat, the only one left from Evelyn who’d loved it, the least harmful of her vices after cigarettes.

Evelyn.

Evelyn celebrated Christmas. Evelyn never let her feel left out. She fasted during Ramadan in the spring even though she wasn’t Muslim if only so Anthea would participate in Christmas crackers and non-alcoholic egg nogs in the winter. 

Evelyn was invested in her like that, like she planned on being around year-long.

She was the first real friend that Anthea ever had. Both orphans. Both ex foster kids aged out of the system, though Evelyn’s homes hadn’t been compounds for war orphans selected by the government to become child soldiers. 

The differences didn’t matter. They’d both been abused by the people trusted to care for them. They both had nightmares. 

That’s how they met.

Anthea had been dreaming about the compound again, about the torture simulations that really were torture. Her terrors were so common that no one noticed when she woke screaming in the night.

No one except Evelyn. 

Anthea folded over in her bunk with her head pressed to the mattress like she was praying. She rocked slowly, listing everything she knew about herself. 

“My name is Muhaimin Khan. I am twenty years old. My blood type is B positive. My family died. I survived. I killed the man who did this to me. I am safe. Dreams are just memories. They can’t hurt me. My name is Muhaimin Khan. I am twenty years old. My blood type is…”

Bare feet padded at the side of her bed. She didn’t look up to see who they belonged to. 

“Go away,” said Anthea. “You’re new. You’ll get used to it.”

The bare feet didn’t budge. 

Instead, the rest of the body sat at the foot of Anthea’s bed. Toned thighs and long slender arms with hands folded on a lap.

“I’m used to the nightmares,” said a voice. “It’s the waking up alone that bothers me.”

Anthea finally looked up. She couldn’t  _ not. _ Her voice was so… 

Clear. 

Like something pure echoing through an empty, marble chamber.

The woman was young, nothing more than a lance-corporal. She shouldn’t have even been in Anthea’s part of the barracks, but yet there she was, sitting beside a superior like Anthea couldn’t or wouldn’t have her punished. 

“What are you doing here?” Anthea meant for her words to come out biting, but instead, they fell like rain, soft and breaking.

“I heard you,” said the young woman. “I came to wake you. I never like, you know, seeing that stuff again. Once was enough.”

She hung her head. “My name’s Wilde,” she said without looking, willingly giving her name so Anthea could retaliate for the intrusion later. “I apologize.”

She stood and saluted. 

“Wait,” said Anthea. 

The soldier froze at the door, turning on her heels and still very much treating Anthea with the same cold respect she’d been paid all her life since leaving the compound. 

“Stop that,” she said. “You aren’t in trouble. I… Thank you.”

“Ma’am?”

“Khan,” Anthea instinctively introduced herself. “I mean… ”

What name was she going by now?

“Anthea. You can call me Anthea, for now.”

The soldier, Wilde, looked at her quizzically. 

“You mean, like for now in this moment, or like… you got a different name? I thought I heard you say that it was—”

“I don’t go by that anymore,” Anthea snapped. 

Her normal speaking voice caused the woman in the bunk beside her to stir, but she quickly fell back into a deep slumber. 

“I… I don’t use that.”

Wilde walked back across the room. 

“They call me Evie, but I prefer Evelyn.”

She stuck out her hand. 

Anthea took it, so cold against her burning skin. 

She shouldn’t; she was in a position of power over this woman. What if she asked and she said yes only because of who Anthea was? Anthea didn’t want that, so instead of asking her to sidle in beside her under the covers, Anthea took the top blanket and draped it over the lance-corporal's shoulders. 

“You’re cold,” she said lamely.

She never knew how to talk to other people. She’d never had any friends. Was she doing it wrong? 

Evelyn sat beside her and draped half over Anthea, their arms pressed close together. 

“Don’t you want to go back to sleep… Anthea?”

She shrugged. This would look bad for both of them if anybody woke up. 

“You know how you said it’s the waking up alone that bothers you? What did you mean by that? Look at this place. We’re never alone.”

Evelyn made eye contact with her for the first time. 

No one ever made eye contact with Anthea.

“Yeah, we are,” Evelyn said quietly. “The room’s full, but nobody’s with us.”

Anthea had never been good with words. She was a woman of action, yet that single sentence fit her like a key in a lock, and she knew right away that Evelyn had opened something she shouldn’t. 

Anthea hid behind a curtain of her own hair. “Will you stay with me?” she asked quickly. “Till I fall asleep, I mean. You can say no, absolutely. What they say about me and the other agents, it isn't all true. I’m not going to—”

“I’ll stay,” cut Evelyn. “I’m usually up by zero dark thirty anyway. I’ll slip out before anyone even knows I was here. You might not ever remember me.”

Anthea had laid down on her pillow, staring at the mocha-toned thigh of the woman watching over her. 

“I’ll remember,” Anthea said. “We don’t forget unless we’re told.”

Anthea jolted from sleep. She was back in her flat, freezing and wet from the rain misting through the open door and tasting the fire-burn of Teeling somehow still saturating her tongue. 

“My name is Anthea Khan. I am twenty-two years old. Evelyn Wilde is dead. I didn’t forget. I’ll always remember. I am all alone.”

The knock came again at the front door, this time more insistent. 

Anthea staggered. She looked like hell, wearing no bra and tattered pajamas with her long hair all in mats. Why hadn’t she cut it? Evelyn always cut it for her.

The knock came again.

It couldn’t have been work, so she didn’t worry. 

Work never knocked. 

She ripped open the door. 

“What?” Anthea snapped, but then stood at attention. 

It was Mr. Mycroft Holmes, the strange nineteen-year-old genius, the new undisclosed head of the British government, and the same person she’d decked not six months ago. 

In her defense, his delivery/interview process could use some work. 

What kind of bastard “deduces” your war crimes and then offers you a job after you break his jaw and he busts your nose?

A Holmes, apparently. 

Anthea had agreed to work for him, but swore she’d  _ never  _ call him sir. It was even in the fine print of her contract. 

“Mr. Holmes,” Anthea straightened. “What are you doing here? Your schedule clearly says you should be in Morpeth for Christmas. It isn’t…”

She remembered Evelyn, cracked out so fucking hard she didn’t know who Anthea was.

“It isn’t your little brother, Sherman, is it?”

She almost thought she saw Mycroft  _ smirk.  _

“No, Miss Khan, it isn’t  _ Sherlock. _ He’s spending this Christmas in a high-security rehabilitation center.”

“Which he’ll bust in about a day like he did the last six you had me put him in,” she scoffed.

“Perhaps,” nodded Mycroft. “But I’m not here about my familial disputes.”

He sniffed the air. His suit was soaked.

The fucker had forgotten an umbrella. After she  _ told him _ the weather in his hourly fucking updates. 

Who needs the weather updated by the hour? There are apps. He could look outside!

“Mr. Holmes,” Anthea stepped aside so he could come out of the drafty hallway. “I know you’re deducing shit —I mean, my activities— so let me save you the trouble. I am  _ pissed.  _ I’ve got half a bottle left, so you can come inside and drink with me, or you can go home, because I am in no way fit to carry out a mission, drive you to the dry cleaners, or whatever fresh hell you’ve in store for me. It’s two AM anyway.”

Anthea hiccuped.

Mycroft raised a brow. “You don’t drink. You’re…”

His face twisted like he was tasting something vulgar.

_ “Religious.” _

Anthea shrugged. “I’m not on December twenty-fucking-fourth.”

What was she doing? Behaving so crass in front of her boss? But hell, this was her home, and she had an excuse. A woman of her height and weight with no prior drinking experience hitting it off with Teeling straight from the gate?

She’d be lucky if she didn’t get alcohol poisoning. 

“Ah, I see,” said Mycroft. “It is today, isn’t it?”

Fine, he could freeze in the hall for all she cared.

She shut the back door and flicked on the heat. 

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Thank you,” nodded Mycroft, only just now walking through the door. 

Anthea poured whiskey in a teacup. 

She sat it down in front of him with more force than necessary, spilling half of it the saucer.

“Kettle’s over there,” Anthea jerked her chin. “I know you hate drinking as much as I do. Think it makes you stupid.”

“Judging by the slurred speech and delayed body movements you’re exhibiting, I’d wager it makes most people stupid, and would render me average.”

Anthea blew a raspberry with her lips. “Smartass. Not even carrying a frickin’ umbrella. Whaddaya do with the weather updates I send you? Do you eat them?”

She knew she’d crossed a line. The chief was particularly sensitive about his weight. It was usually the first weak point Sherman, or Sherlock, or whatever the hell his name was went for when they bickered on the phone.

Mycroft frowned. “Perhaps I should come back when you’re less inebriated.” 

“If you’re not going to drink that, then leave it out.” Anthea rose out of her chair and stood in front of the glass door overlooking the balcony. Her breath fogged the glass, and she absently drew interlinked hearts with her finger. “I suspect I’ll need a little hair of the dog tomorrow.”

“It  _ is _ tomorrow,” said Mycroft. “Or zero dark thirty or whatever you call it.” 

Anthea snorted. She fisted her tangled hair at the scalp.

“ _ Why _ did you have to come by  _ today?” _ asked Anthea. “I’m never  _ not  _ together except on this conveniently placed holiday.”

Mycroft, for the first time since she met him, looked uncomfortable. 

“I didn’t mean to intrude, ma’am. I am here because—”

“Why do you do that, huh?” Anthea turned. “Why call me ‘ma’am?’ I never call you ‘sir.’”

Mycroft sat in his customary fashion, so stiff it wasn’t human. 

“Because I respect you, Miss Khan, and because… you are the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

He looked at his feet.

“I’m here because I want to make you a—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Anthea draped a quilt over his shoulders and offered him a dishtowel. 

“For your hair,” she said. “It looks brown when it’s wet. Did you know?”

She held out the dishtowel for over a minute, waiting as the man soaking her second-best leather armchair collected his faculties. 

“No, I didn’t,” he finally accepted. “Miss Khan—”

“Anthea,” she cut. “I appreciate it, but I don’t like it. Being called Miss Khan. They let me keep my last name. There are a million Khans. But Anthea is the name… it’s the one my girlfriend called me. I’ve been so many people, but I feel like Anthea is who I really am. Or used to be.”

Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Miss—” 

He caught himself.

“Anthea, I’m here because I want to make you a proposition. Right now, you technically work for MI5, but I want to move you to MI6. Officially. There is a certain… asset which might benefit from your influence and which I believe might benefit you as well.”

Mycroft took a photograph out of his coat pocket. The edges were bent and bleeding, but the image made out. It was a young girl, twelve or thirteen in appearance, and she stood before a decimated convoy of Russian military vehicles holding a KBP GM-94 tactical grenade launcher. She had all the markings of a child soldier. 

“Her parents were working in the Ukrainian government to  develop Crimea's natural gas reserves in collusion with the United States. If they had succeeded, Russia would have lost one of its biggest customers, and of course, Putin saw this as a major threat to the Russian economy.”

“She’s a war orphan,” said Anthea. “No family?”

“None,” said Mycroft, looking  _ chuffed _ about it. 

Anthea handed him back the photograph. 

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Don’t make me, Anthea,” said Mycroft, standing and shrugging off the quilt. “Don’t make me tell you what you already know. It’s so tedious.”

He took what was left of the whiskey and poured it down the sink. “The girl has skills that mirror your own at the same age. I’ve read your file. I know you killed the man who trained you and made it look like an accident.” 

He put the Teeling bottle in the recycle bin. 

“Obviously you didn’t like the compound very much.”

“It’s  _ sick,”  _ Anthea spat before she could think about who she was talking to. “Taking little kids and torturing them until you get the perfect soldier. If you’re asking me to become a den mother, then find yourself another girl, another personal assistant, and another morality, because I am through!”

“That isn’t what I’m asking,” said Mycroft. “I’m asking you to raise the child, at least until she is old enough to be put on assignment. This would be strictly under the table, of course.”

Anthea blinked. 

_ “Raise a child?” _ she said. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s mother!”

“Older sister, perhaps?” asked Mycroft. “It would be interesting, seeing which one of us proves the better hand raising a psychotic younger sibling.”

Anthea knew he wasn’t talking about Sherlock then. 

She knew things about Mycroft enemies would kill for. 

“It’s the only way to keep her out of the compound. I saw her, and I thought perhaps we should try something new.”

Anthea didn’t know what to say. 

“You’re… thinking of doing away with the compounds?”

“Only experimenting,” he corrected. “Agents, soldiers, people like you, all of them contribute to the safety of England and the world at large. Without them, we don’t stand a chance against agents like what Viveka Vynnyk  _ could  _ be if she fell into the wrong hands. And I wonder, perhaps, if I’d handled Eurus differently…”

She understood then.

“So… the Ukrainian girl lives with me, I train her, and if all goes well then the compounds… they’ll just go away?”

“More like phase out over time,” said Mycroft. “You know how old goats feel about sudden changes. However, I’m confident, I can set something up that will last long after I am gone.”

Anthea had to sit down. 

If Mycroft wasn’t going to wrap up in the damn quilt, she sure would. 

She cocooned on the floor. “You don’t throw around the word ‘psychotic’ willy nilly. What’s wrong with the girl?”

“She’s not quite in her right mind, I’m afraid. She has, putting it gently, some attachment disorders, either becoming infatuated with individuals to the point of obsession or turning particularly violent when faced with rejection. I believe with therapy she can be recovered.”

The unspoken “unlike my own sister” hung in the air. 

“Why me?” asked Anthea. “Why not you?”

“Too many irons in that fire already. You’re the only one I know who could handle it  _ maybe _ .”

A  _ maybe  _ from Mycroft was a huge compliment, but still.

“Evelyn and I didn’t want kids. I definitely don’t want them now.”

“I know,” said Mycroft. “But think about it. She wouldn’t be with you much. No ordinary family could handle her. There are special schools that she can go to outside of the compound that can teach her English. Your only role would be mentor.”

She considered. 

“So, we treat the girl for her illness, train her like one of our own, and then, what? What does MI6 get out of this?”

“An agent,” said Mycroft. “An agent with intimate knowledge of regions and peoples deemed necessary for the security of the United Kingdom, like you.”

“So she still wouldn’t have a choice,” said Anthea. “At the end of the day, she’s either a liability or a war dog.”

“Her rehabilitation won’t be cheap. The nation likes to see results. Head of the British Empire I may be, at the end of the day, I only remain so if I please and manipulate all the right people.”

He crossed his legs when he sat back down, sipping a cuppa he’d made in the kitchen. 

“Chai,” he smacked. “You are a woman of taste.”

Anthea was never sure if she could trust Mycroft when he said things like that. Was he manipulating her? Eurus was in prison for possessing the same superpower. She wished that Evelyn was there. Evelyn somehow always knew sycophants from the straight-men. No one took advantage of her. To be fair, not just anyone could take advantage of Anthea either.

But Mycroft wasn’t anyone. 

“You’re changing a program hundreds of years old for no other reason than you want to help a child who reminds you of your younger sister?”

He sat his cup on the saucer with a clink.

“No. I’m changing a program that should have changed hundreds of years ago,” said Mycroft. “I didn’t care until I met you. I think of you as an… associate, and I admire your…”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Chief. 

_ “Tenacity,” _ he spat. “I’m trying to apologize.”

Apologize? What for? For outing her as a murderer in front of her unit? For deducing that she and Evelyn weren’t together anymore because he was too dense to see that her ‘sentiment’ was on account of the woman’s death instead of a breakup? For the long hours and ridiculous requests? For the way he’d mind-wiped his own little brother like her handlers had mind-wiped her? For the constant insults to her intelligence when she brought him the salads he’d asked for instead of burgers?

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Anthea said. “Apologizing for what?”

He looked up at her with stoicism, not the fake puppy-eyes he used on members of his inner circle. 

“For treating you like a machine instead of a person. For the way you’ve all been treated like machines and replaceable computer parts. I’ve never had a secretary—”

“Personal assistant.”

“—last as long as you.”

Mycroft stood. 

“If you don’t want to do it, I will find someone, but perhaps not with Vynnyk. I promise I  _ will  _ do away with the compounds, Anthea. There won’t be any more children like you. And as for the foster care system,” he looked at his feet. “Well, that’s an even more tangled mess than top-secret government programs, isn’t it?”

He smiled weakly. “I’ll do what I can. I’ve put together several scholarships in your wife’s name.”

Anthea perked. It almost sobered her. 

“Evelyn and I weren’t married.”

“No,” said Mycroft, “but you should have been.”

He rose to let himself out. “Please forgive the intrusion. If it isn’t too bold, I’ll send someone over with medicine around midday tomorrow. A lightweight like yourself will feel it.”

Mycroft strode for the door. He let himself out and the knob clicked closed, but then Anthea came to herself. 

It was still raining. 

She snatched an umbrella from the stand, the black one with a curved, bamboo handle she’d only bought for Evelyn’s funeral, and sprinted into the hall.

“Mr. Holmes! Mycroft!” 

She twisted in all directions, becoming more and more upset when she couldn’t find him.

“Chief?”

He came running and caught her as she turned into his chest. He held on by her upper arms. 

“Anthea? What is it? Are you hurt?”

He’d never looked so concerned, not unless it was about Sherlock in the moments he thought no one was looking. It was then that Anthea realized. 

_ Mycroft Holmes has a heart. _

“Here,” she held out the umbrella. “You’ll get drenched without it.”

His blue eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “You’re… worried about me?”

Later, she would blame it on the whiskey, and they never spoke of it after, but Anthea cried. 

“You daft bugger!”

She pounded on his chest with one fist and his umbrella until Mycroft finally had to still her by the wrists and she sobbed into his wet suit. He cradled the back of her neck. 

“We’re in rooms full of people, but nobody’s with us.”

The sound of rain filled the silence. It felt like ages before he spoke. 

No one knew better than Mycroft, the man living in a world of goldfish.

“I’m not lonely, Anthea. I have  _ me _ .”

Then he added, “And now I have you.”

She looked up at him, embarrassed but deeply moved.

“Sir?”

His copper eyebrows shot up to his early receding hairline. 

“Sir? You never call me ‘sir.’”

He sounded almost offended.

Anthea pulled away, smoothing her hair in her hands after forcing the umbrella on Mycroft. 

Why had she hated him so? The memories were still there, but they didn’t read the same. She’d thought of him as the man with the perfect life, the man for whom everything was too easy and who didn’t deserve to lead. 

An entitled civilian prat.

But Mycroft wasn’t like that. Maybe he’d never been, or maybe he’d changed. Sherlock’s addiction a year ago broke a cog in his carefully oiled machine, and he’d never worked the same since. He looked at people now like their pain mattered the longer his went on. Maybe he had to hold people at a distance to keep them safe. Maybe if she’d done the same, if she hadn’t used her influence to cover for Evelyn when her addictions got out of hand, maybe she would have been discharged and she’d still be alive.

“Before,” Anthea tried to say, “I thought you weren’t worthy to lead the nation. You’re so young, and you seemed so cold, but maybe I’ve been the cold one?”

Going on a leap of faith, she stood on her tiptoes and hugged him around the neck.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be so professional you won’t recognize me come Monday, and I’ll never hug you again. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Mycroft eased against her, not returning the embrace, but speaking with a smile in his voice. 

“See to it that you don’t.”

She didn’t let him go. 

“Happy Christmas, sir.”

“Happy Holidays… Anthea.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Greg woke in the backseat of the Mercedes.

“Take a video. It’ll last longer, sir.”

“Anthea, shut up.”

As Greg shook off the last remnants of whatever chemical Mycroft had gassed him with, he almost swore he saw Mycroft pulling away from him. But no, Mycroft couldn’t have been near him the whole time. He was nestled on the far side of the car, texting rampantly on his phone. 

Odd, Mycroft hated texting. He almost always insisted on phone calls. It must have been something he didn’t want Greg to hear. He had kidnapped him, after all. 

“Oh, God,” he groaned. “Is England falling?”

Mycroft closed out his phone and rolled his eyes. “Gregory, why is it that every time you and I get together you think it means the doom of the free-world.”

“Possibly because he assumes the whole of it will crash and burn without you at the helm, sir. You do spend so much time away these days.”

Mycroft scowled at Anthea in the rearview mirror. 

She held up her hands in mock surrender before taking the steering wheel again and popping in her AirPods. 

She didn’t utter a single word for the rest of the drive through Oxfordshire. 

“Then what the blazing hells, Myc?” Greg threw off his seatbelt and went for the Holmes across from him. Lestrade was a peaceful man. A calm man. A level-headed, reasonable man. 

But if he’d learned one thing from John Watson, it was that roughing up the geniuses could be a necessary evil. 

He took Mycroft by the throat, practically strangling him, but not quite all the way to madness. 

“I’ve had it up to  _ here _ with you and your psycho family and their psycho enemies! I’ve had it with you shagging me and leaving. I’ve had it with you! You  _ gassed  _ me? You’ll get stabbed that way, Caesar!”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft croaked out, though his lips were turning blue. He called for Anthea, but she couldn’t hear him. Anthea, like Greg, had a weakness for disco and was too busy jamming out to  _ Bad Girls _ by Donna Summer while navigating the road.

“I can already see you coming up with a lie. I know you lied to Sherlock. Are you gonna lie to me too? ANSWER ME!”

Mycroft wanted to quip that he couldn’t, seeing as his airflow was cut off, but another small part of his was strangely enjoying it. 

Greg finally let go and pinned him up in the middle seat. Maybe getting up in Myc’s face like that was supposed to be intimidating, but it was doing far more for Mycroft than he ever would admit.

He straightened his twisted ball cap, miraculously still on despite the scuffle. 

“I can explain.”

“I know you can explain! You’d explain your way out of the devil’s asshole! What I want is the truth, goddammit! If you’re not gonna tell me that, then don’t speak at all!”

“I’ve never lied to you, Gregory. I make it a point to always be honest with you.”

“Then why’d you gas me?!”

“I wanted—” What could he say? He’d never lied to Greg before. He had no intention of doing so after he saw all the bother that lying caused Sherlock’s relationship. “I wanted to see you wake up. I’ve never seen you… wake up before. Because I always leave or make you leave.”

Greg froze. 

“You…  _ That’s the reason?” _

That was insane.

“Is every person in your entire family a sociopath?”

Mycroft mulled it over.

“Yes.”

Greg fell back into his seat and clicked on his seatbelt. He crossed his arms, glowering. 

“I don’t know what this is, but I want you to know that I’m not okay with our agreement anymore. I saw John torn to shit over your brother. I don’t want to be torn up over you.” He stared out the window. “I’m still your friend and I’ll still help you, but don’t get any ideas about seeing me wake up again in any capacity unless you’re ready for a serious and official relationship”

Greg’s cheeks burned.

God, what had he done? He couldn’t be ‘just friends’ with Mycroft. He wouldn’t last a week. How was Mycroft supposed to take him seriously if he couldn’t last a week?

Greg was so preoccupied scolding himself for being whipped for Mycroft Holmes that he didn’t notice when Mycroft inched across the middle seat and forcibly turned his face. 

“Okay then, what constitutes official?”

Greg needed a moment.

“What?”

“An official relationship, Gregory. I can be serious, but I don’t understand official in terms of romantic entanglements. Would meeting your parents suffice?” 

Greg stared, unblinking. 

“My parents?” his voice cracked. “Like, you want to meet my mum and dad.”

“Those are typically parents, yes.”

“......”

“Gregory?”

Mycroft whacked him in the cheek. “Gregory?”

Greg had loads of thoughts, but mainly that he was perhaps still gassed, dreaming, that he misheard, that maybe Eurus had died of a heart attack.  _ Something _ had to have happened. Why would Mycroft suddenly change his mind?

“Why?” he asked.

There, that was better. He’d have to teach that little trick to John.

“Why?” echoed Mycroft.

“Yeah, as in why do you want to meet my parents? You were dead against us in the beginning, and even more, you were dead against going public the last time we shagged. At literally every turn you say, ‘Expect me to leave. This is the last time,’ and now you’re putting the moves on me and asking to meet my ‘rents? What gives, Myc?”

Let it be known that Gregory Lestrade is not a goldfish. 

He had him, so Mycroft sighed and spilled the details.

“Aside from the very obvious, Eurus is still at large. Once more, her lap dog, Viveka Vynnyk, or as she is known to you, Mary Morstan, has escaped using brainwashed lackeys in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. During the ordeal, she managed to steal a secure laptop and disarm the self-destruct sequence implanted on the device. With the information she has, I’ve been ordered into hiding.”

“Ordered?” Greg thought. “But who could order you?”

Mycroft looked to Anthea jamming out in the front, bobbing her head and singing along to her second favorite song.  _ “I need some hot stuff, baby this evening. I need some hot stuff, baby tonight. Yeah, yeah, yeah.” _

“She felt very strongly that I ought to go underground.”

Greg frowned. “So this whole arrangement, the sweet-talking, the chemical gas and seeing me wake, that’s you saying you need a place to crash for the holidays?”

“Basically.”

“And suddenly instead of thinking about my safety you’re thinking of your own?”

Mycroft’s even tone and expression went up like a Roman candle. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you were in the Tower of London you wouldn’t get a fucking pardon from me!”

“I said aside from the obvious, Gregory, aren’t you listening, or have you been taking notes from your brother-in-law?”

“Brother-in-law? Did you douse yourself with that aerosol can? I don’t  _ have  _ a brother-in-law!”

“You nitwit!” Mycroft exploded. “The obvious is that I’m in love with you! I love you, Gregory Lestrade, illogically and horribly!”

Mycroft melted into the seat with his hands scraping down his face. 

“God, I finally said it! I wish I could scrape my bloody tongue off, but I said it. It’s disgusting but what am I to do about it? I’m  _ compromised _ and it’s all your doing!”

He pointed his finger accusingly at Greg.

“You dolt!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you really think I haven't thought it through? I said she stole a laptop. Eurus already knows about you! You’re my sole weakness, the greatest single security risk in the whole of Europe! The absolute safest place in the world for you is here with me and the deadliest assassin known in recorded human history.”

Lestrade stopped breathing. He stopped  _ thinking, _ so of course his brain couldn’t manage a synapse to tell his lungs to breathe. He turned as grey as his hair.

But an L-Bomb wasn’t enough. No, Mycroft had to go off with the equivalent of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

“I’m trying to ask you to marry me, you little fool!”

Anthea switched to  _ Waterloo  _ by Abba in the front, unaware of what her genius boss had done.

“Come now,” Myc said softer, reaching out to take Greg’s hands between his own. “Wouldn’t you like to shed that ghastly French surname once and for all?”

Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps it was some long-dormant sense of patriotism, but when Greg finally snapped out of it, he knew what he was going to do. He went to hug Myc, but what he was really doing was reaching around him. He took the discarded aerosol can and leaned in for a kiss. The second Mycroft closed his eyes, Greg maced him, and the British government fell back into a window, dead to the world. 

Greg tapped Anthea on the shoulder. 

“Would you pull over, please, Anthea? I’m moving up front.”

She popped out her AirPods. “Hmm? Everything alright back there?”

Greg looked down at Mycroft, his head encircled with visions of chocolate eclairs.

“No,” said Greg. “I’m feeling a little carsick.”

______________________________________________________________________________


	41. Mycroft Takes the Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock and John attempt to pacify Cynthia while maintaining their cover, Mycroft and Anthea meet Greg's family. 
> 
> But Mycroft makes a small slip.

Mycroft and Anthea leaned against the side of the gas station while Greg was in the loo, exhaust fumes clouding the air and traffic rumbling all around them. A blue lorry rattled out of the parking lot sending swirls of dry snow tumbling off its roof. The flurries scattered to the ground like a mushroom of dust. 

Anthea pulled the brim of her cap low across her face, only the glow of cigarette embers giving light to her shadowed features. Hiding, after all, is what they were supposed to be doing.

She exhaled. “I really ought to quit. I’ve always meant to.”

Anthea always said this when they smoked together, and Mycroft always asked the same question.

“Time for one more?”

She shrugged, tapping another one out of the box and holding it gingerly between her long fingers as he flicked the lighter.

“So,” she began. “I hear you proposed.”

Mycroft wheezed, choking on his own smoke. 

“He told me while you were incapacitated. Did you _really_ let Greg get the jump on you?”

Mycroft recovered himself enough to throw down a perfectly good cigarette and smeared it across the sidewalk. He shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Then I suppose he also told you that he _rejected me_.”

“Sir, you described your feelings for him as ‘disgusting’ while simultaneously insulting his nationality. You’ve also maintained a series of casual flings with him while acting as his boss.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Anthea tapped her music app. She held up the phone as it played _Can’t Hurry Love_ by Diana Ross and the Supremes, wrinkling her lips in a grimace.

“I wasn’t hurrying! It’s a reasonable request. He’d be safe and covered by the Secret Service. It’d save taxpayers millions.”

“You do realize what you sound like, right? _‘Hey, my nutter little sister is trying to kill us, so let’s get married for convenience, and also, I’m appalled that I have feelings for you, you stale French baguette.’_ The two of you haven’t even dated! You know nothing about each other. What kind of moron proposes like that anyway?”

Mycroft glared until she amended, “Apologies. Please forgive me.”

He nodded his acceptance.

“I meant to say, ‘What kind of moron proposes like that, _sir.’”_

“Miss Khan!”

“Tell me that I’m wrong,” she challenged, grinding her cigarette out against the brick and posting up in his business. “Look at this situation with your advanced brain and tell me that I’m wrong. Do you even _want_ to get married?”

“Of course I don’t want to get married!” he said, throwing his arms out. “Matrimony is an institution harkening the doom of society and in time, one feels certain, our entire species! It’s nothing but sentiment and weakness and irrationality!”

“Tell me how you really feel, sir.”

“But,” he sighed, ignoring Anthea's quips and slumping against the wall, “I wouldn’t mind … exploring the idea. With Gregory. Especially with the added benefit of his safety.”

“Bleeding romantic.”

He scowled. “This is ridiculous! You and Gregory are making this far more complicated than necessary. Why must there be all this red tape?”

Anthea blew a raspberry and chortled like a choking goat. She caught herself on one knee as she keeled on the sideway clutching at her sides.

“R-Red Tape? Are you… are you serious?! You’re a goddamn bureaucrat!”

He turned up his face like the snoot that he was and caught a snowflake on the tip of his nose. 

He crossed his arms. “And I do too know Gregory! I’ve read his file on occasions, once or twice, and we have spent numerous hours in communication. We appreciate the same networks on television—”

“After you broke your own laws by illegally streaming him Food Network and Doctor Who, but go on.”

“—and have discussed our aspirations for the future. I feel that a union between Gregory and myself would stand a chance slightly above average, although one can never rule out the possibility of divorce. On the whole, I’d say if he’s willing to sign a prenup, we might be doing fairly well. Not to mention the tax cut is substantial, and I have phenomenal insurance.”

“Oh, yeah. If you’d led with that, there’s no way he would’ve gassed you.”

“Perhaps,” he said. 

Anthea checked her watch. Greg had been in the bathroom for a long time. 

“Listen, I’m not saying all that stuff isn’t great, but there’s more to know about people than MI6 can put into a file.”

Mycroft bristled under his coat. “We have the most thorough agents in the world. What could they have possibly missed?”

She rolled her eyes and counted to ten.

Twice.

Bilingually.

“What movie gave him nightmares as a kid?” she asked. “What’s his favorite holiday? What food will he never eat?”

“Gregory eats _everything.”_

Anthea bit her tongue and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. 

“Sir, I say this with the utmost respect that a subordinate/friend can muster, but you are _hopeless!”_

She marched toward the double glass doors, peeking idly over posters for lottery tickets, but when she entered the gas station, Mycroft heard her exclaim. 

“Oh, my God!”

Anthea, startled? What could be wrong? But they’d been so careful!

“Mr. Lestrade,” she continued. “Don’t move! It’s okay, everything is gonna be fine.”

Mycroft moved faster than he ever had voluntarily, barreling over the elderly and small children.

“What is it? What’s wrong!” 

He screeched to a stop, leaving scuff marks from his shiny shoes on the linoleum. 

Gregory stood under a blinking fluorescent light carrying half the snack aisle in his arms, which Anthea was trying to help him balance, and had a Choc Roll shoved in each cheek. He looked like a manic chipmunk storing up food for the winter.

“What?” he mumbled, spewing chocolate cake crumbles down his shirt. “I’m an emotional eater, okay? I need it!”

Anthea approached him slowly. She gently pried the snack boxes from his fingers, murmuring sweet nothings as she tried to talk him back off the binge eating ledge.

“There we go, honey. Hand over the crisps. That’s it. Now isn’t that better?”

When she finally did procure the sweeties, she glared at Mycroft behind the boxes stacked in her arms and jerked her head towards Greg, darting her eyes between them. She mouthed, _“Apologize, chief!”_

 _“Me?”_ he mouthed back, nevermind Greg could see him.

Anthea cleared her throat.

“I’m just gonna… put these back.” She nodded to the cashier. “Sorry! Sorry, he missed breakfast. Growing boy. Yeah.”

Then she scurried down the aisles, arranging the crisps and cakes in no particular order and putting as much space between her and Mycroft as possible.

Mycroft unbuttoned his coat and went for his pocket square before he realized he was wearing casual clothes. No matter, he shimmied his sleeve over his hand and went about wiping Greg’s shirt and mouth. 

The boy gulped down what was left of the Choc Rolls. It was a wonder he didn’t choke. 

Mycroft opened his mouth repeatedly, starting fragments of sentences but never getting quite all the way to the end. After a good two minutes of failed attempts, Anthea leaned from behind a stack of sodas and made a fist, which she punched into an open palm. 

_“You hurt his feelings!”_

Mycroft’s jaw dropped, incredulous. He motioned to Greg as if to say, _“Me? I’m the one who got rejected!”_

Anthea cocked her head and flared her left nostril. She formed a heart shape with her fingers and made a grand motion like pushing it out of her body.

_“Share. Your. Emotions!”_

Mycroft turned to Greg, too despondent looking at a gas station pizza to notice the exchange going on in front of him.

“Gregory,” Mycroft turned on his heel, asking his attention and removing his ball cap. “It has occurred to me that my earlier proposition may have,” he gritted his teeth, “upset you, and you have my deepest apologies, but I…”

Anthea made a strangling motion at her own throat.

“Choked? I mean, I choked in the moment because…”

He looked at his long-suffering personal assistant, making the heart sign again but this time sticking out her tongue like she was vomiting on the floor.

“Because I am lovesick for you.”

Wait, what?”

“It is true,” said Mycroft, trying to smooth the translation. “I didn’t mean that I was disgusted by what I feel for you, but rather how it makes me…”

Anthea put a thumping hand over her chest.

“...feel like I am experiencing cardiac arrest?”

She slapped herself in the forehead and scuttled out the door. 

“And frustrated,” continued Mycroft. “I also don’t really hold much against the French. It was an ill-carried attempt at humor, which I vehemently regret. I understand that I may have… hurried things. But I don’t want to marry you just because of my sister or the protection that you would receive. I genuinely enjoy your company. I even grow tired of Anthea after a while, but… I’m never tired of you.”

Greg’s eyes widened. He looked so handsome against the backdrop of the snow outside, even covered in chocolate stains. 

“Myc,” he began. “You can’t go from casual hook-up to fiance just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “I know you Holmeses do things a little strangely, but even Sherlock hasn’t given John a ring yet—”

Greg cut himself off. 

“Let me rephrase that. What I mean is, if you want to date me, then _do_. Don’t kidnap, gas, and propose to me in a single evening while simultaneously inviting yourself to meet my big-ass family for Christ’s sake! Haven’t you ever asked anyone out before?”

“No.”

Greg paused. 

“And the proposing thing, is that a routine with you, or am I kind of it?”

“Exclusively,” said Mycroft. “I also don’t engage in intercourse with the same person twice, and I certainly don’t exchange illicit text messages on a weekly—”

“Okay! Geez!” Greg clamped his hand over Mycroft's mouth and threw down more than enough quid to cover his Choc Rolls before ushering him out of the Shell station. 

They stood facing each other in the increasingly heavy snow while Anthea pretended to play on her phone in the car. Mycroft recognized that instead of AirPods she’d really put in a high-grade listening device. 

“Did you mean it?” Greg asked. “Do you really…?”

“Love you?”

“Want a serious relationship,” Greg corrected. “You said you cared about me, more than just to hold at a distance. I can’t hope for anything more than that right now. I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Have I ever lied to you? Even once?” Mycroft asked, stepping so close their toes touched. 

Greg’s heart fluttered. 

Maybe Mycroft wasn’t the only one who felt “cardiac arrest” when they were near.

“I… No, you haven’t,” he said, his voice shaky.

Their breaths intermingled in the air, one cloud. 

“Then I hope you believe me now,” said Mycroft, throwing away his cap and taking Greg’s cold, ungloved hands between his leather-clad ones. He held them warm against his chest. “I know it might seem absurd and, to those who know me, even impossible, but I do know how to love, Gregory. There is a heart in me somewhere, and I assure you it belongs entirely to you. Please do me a great service. Allow me a redo.”

“A redo?” stammered Greg, so amazed that Mycroft loved him he hadn’t processed a single word he said after _entirely to you_.

Did he mean it? He wasn’t lying? Greg wasn’t deluding himself?

 _Be careful,_ he thought. _Be careful or you won’t survive this._

Mycroft got down on one knee, still holding Greg’s hands.

“Gregory Hugo Lestrade,” he said. “Will you honor me with the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight? A first official real date? Although, I suppose your parents will want to go. Perhaps I should have thought this through…” His face scrunched. “You’ll have to forgive me. Impulse is not an activity in which I frequently engage.”

Engage? _Engage?_

“Are you… on one knee to ask me on a date?” Greg asked, shellshocked. 

Mycroft was puzzled. “Did I do it wrong?”

Greg short-circuited, but then his features drew close in a look of absolute adoration.

This man. This clueless, brilliant, oxymoron of a man. 

Greg tugging him to his feet. He threw his arms around Mycroft’s neck and breathed in the scent of his expensive shampoo. He thought his red hair looked so vibrant against the silver sky and buried his face in it.

“I love you too, Ian Mycroft Mark Holmes.”

Mycroft gasped against Greg’s ear.

“I do,” he repeated. “I have since the night you blew up that stupid umbrella and scared the shit out of our taxi driver. I have since before you ever took me to bed. I like how ridiculous and rude and intimidating you are, and I like that you can’t do push-ups. I like how you quip and quibble with me about everything and when you speak Russian and fight with me in French. I like how you make me laugh when you make fun of baking disasters on the telly and how you pretend to criticize food at restaurants and how you really believe that I can make it to DI in the Yard all on my own. I like how you have freckles but won’t admit it, and how you lie about all the exercises I send you. I like a lot of things about you, Mycroft, but I love you the most.”

Mycroft looked desperately to Anthea holding his hands out to the side, but she wouldn’t help, only covered her mouth and smiled at her phone transcribing everything Greg said.

What was he to do?

Cautiously, he lifted his arms. 

His loose hold around Greg tightened until he was crushing him into his body. They embraced for a long time, long enough for snow to pile in their hair and at their feet. 

“I’ve been such a fool,” said Mycroft. “I’ve wasted so much time.”

“You told me not to waste my time on you once, but that paid off in the end. Don’t have regrets, Myc. Don’t rush it. This is our beginning. Beginnings are beautiful.”

Mycroft frowned, but he didn’t let go. 

“It isn’t the beginnings I fear,” he said, looking up at the swirling and the encroaching darkness. “It’s the endings.”

The world grew white around them, like the pages of an unwritten story.

______________________________________________________________________________

John’s demeanor changed the farther they went into Nottingham. His posture became more erect, his shoulders and the plant of his feet wider, and his voice took on a deeper quality. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of this, especially since John didn’t seem to notice he was doing it. It must’ve been the advantage of the home turf. At Conan, John started as an outsider, and he still felt that way whenever the topic of money arose. Conan was an old world with old families and even older money, but in Nottingham, John Watson was his own man.

“Either my mates will think I’m a bigshot coming home in a limo or they’ll call us tossers and box our jaws. I can’t decide which. Both, I imagine.”

John smiled out the window like the prospect excited him. He shared memories as they came, often stopping to rejoice about the snow. Sherlock always assumed that he’d hate it, but the way John spoke of ice hockey injuries and bitter snowball fights, one would think it was his favorite kind of weather.

He cataloged it all in John’s wing of the mind palace.

“Harry and I used to be _obsessed_ with Robin Hood as kids. We got teased for it loads because we were always playing with plastic bows and suction-cup arrows in quivers that Mum made for us. Sometimes she’d take us to Sherwood Forest too. Not often, but that made it special, you know? Like a treat. Harry and I were on the bike trail and I tried to imagine that she was Prince John, because of course, _I wasn’t_ John.”

Sherlock lifted a brow.

“Prince John’s the bad guy! Christ, you mum didn’t read you the stories?”

He shook his head. “My mum read us instructional manuals for telescopes.” 

“Telescopes?” 

“Just the one, actually,” Sherlock amended. “The Hubble or some other.”

John rolled his eyes. 

“Anyway, it was snowing and I tried to nail Harry in the back of the head, but I hit a patch of black ice and crashed into a log. I snapped my ruddy arm in two and the snow was so heavy an ambulance couldn’t collect me. Mum never took us again after that. Harry cried for three days, but she wouldn’t speak to me for weeks. I was the one all banged up!”

John couldn’t have been prouder of his hometown. He went on about the neighborhoods and how much things had improved. He told how he and his friends had gotten into a fistfight with a couple of blokes from West Bridgford who’d called them chavs and how it was the first time that he’d ever thrown a punch at someone who wasn’t Harry. He spoke with pride about the music venues he’d played and about the city’s progressive LGBTQ community, and how strange it was now coming back and being a part of it. But most of all, he talked about all of the places that he wanted to take Sherlock. 

“I know it sounds touristy as shit, but there’s this pub built into the rocks that Nottingham Castle sits on. I mean, it’s too popular for my tastes, but it’s got caverns in it and they say that outlaws and kings like Richard the Lionhearted used to drink there. And of course, it’s riddled with ghosts!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“Codswallop! Of course there’s ghosts! All those gruesome murders and not a single ghost? Come now, Sherlock!”

What was the point in arguing with him? John was too pleased with the idea of ghosts that go bump in the night for Sherlock to spoil it for him.

Today, anyway. 

“I wonder what it would have been like,” he mused.

“What?”

“You and me if we’d met as children. Can you imagine? A pirate and an outlaw. You’d rob the rich on dry land and I’d raid their ships at sea. What would our mothers have done with us?”

“Yours would have tried to keep you away from large bodies of water,” said John, “and I imagine after that failed and you talked me into stealing a boat out of Beeston Marina, mine would have just walked me down a gangplank.”

“You think I’d talk you into stealing a boat?”

“We literally stole an old lady’s car with her boot still up the first time we met.”

“It wasn’t the first time! It was just the first day.”

“It hadn’t even been an hour.”

They drove over a stone bridge across the River Trent. John explained that the area they were now was his home, The Meadows. It didn’t look like much to Sherlock, lacking the grandeur of London or the quaintness of Morpeth, but John gave it a heartbeat, made it seem almost human.

“I hate this,” he said, reaching over to squeeze Sherlock’s hand. “Not being able to call you what you really are. Whenever Mum’s not around, we’ll drop the act. We can say to hell with the act right now if you like. Maybe Brett’s right. If she loves her prejudices more than she loves me, what’s the point?”

With Sholto’s funds frozen, he was only paid till the end of the school year anyway. Sherlock threw scholarship after scholarship in his lap, and his grade point average was good enough, but he would be competing against the best of the best in England. What chance did he have?

Sherlock kissed him as they came to a stop in front of John’s house, a two-story Radburn-style home with a small garage at the bottom. It was red brick with a white door, the paint chipped and weather-worn, and fit snugly between rows of other identical dwellings. Despite the two levels, it was incredibly small. 

“Don’t fret,” he scolded. “This isn’t going to be like one of your nightmares. Your mum won’t get to me. I promise you that. We’ll keep our cover, and I _know_ you’ll get a scholarship.”

 _“Sherlock,”_ John threatened.

“Don’t start. While I _could_ and _would_ pay for your education, I won’t have to. Tutor you in chemistry, maybe, but you’re smart and determined enough that you don’t need me to pave your way. You were always gonna be Dr. Watson, whether we met now or in our thirties.”

John puffed up, swelling with the earlier confidence the city had inspired. 

“My mum’s work van isn’t out front. That’ll make this easier.”

“Easier?” Sherlock asked. “I thought you wanted to get meeting her out of the way?”

John rubbed the back of his neck.

“The thing is, um, I maybe forgot to warn you about Harry.”

“Harry?” said Sherlock. “What the devil do I need to worry about Harry for? Harry loves me.”

“Yeah, but that was _before.”_

“Before what?”

John sighed and slapped him on the back.

“You’ve got a lot to learn about big sisters.”

He’d scarcely set foot on the narrow lawn before Harry burst through the front door with her face as red as her hair. She picked up a weathered garden gnome.

“Hello, Har—”

“YOU’RE A GORMLESS MOTHERFUCKER, SHERLOCK HOLMES.”

He ducked as the gnome went sailing over his head and into the limousine’s rearview mirror. Alphonse peeled away before he could even take his coat out of the car.

John had called his sister rather than his mother to tell them that he was bringing Sherlock home for Christmas. His mum couldn’t say no considering it was Uncle James’s fault the whole bomb debacle had arisen. The way Mycroft’s agents had explained, she’d be planning another funeral if not for Sherlock Holmes. He’d saved her son’s life and James, a man she’d always loved and trusted, was currently kicking it behind bars at the HMP Wakefield. She had to be open-minded.

Harry, on the other hand…

“You absolutely _GUTTED_ my brother! What on earth were you _THINKING?_ ”

“I was—”

“You weren’t! And do you know _WHY_?”

Sherlock hesitated, wondering if he’d get a chance to answer.

“... because I’m gormless?”

Harry, taking the response as sass, closed in on the snookered detective. 

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Ah, John! Good, gentle John stopped her fist with an open palm. 

He was in the clear, no doubt. John wouldn’t let anyone _assault him._

“Think clearly, Harry.”

You tell her, John.

“If you punch him in the nose or bust his lip, Mum will notice.”

Come again?

“Besides, he’s a tooth missing already. Go for an uppercut to the ribs. It’s less noticeable.”

“JOHN!”

But she didn’t punch him, not right away. Harry was so irritated she shouted over her brother who held her back in what was practically a fireman's carry. It looked like the two siblings were about to start wrestling in the front yard. 

She grunted, straining as she attempted to crawl over him.

“You’ve gotten taller.”

“And you,” John huffed, almost buckling, “have gotten heavier!”

“Heavier!”

She kneed him in the gut, nevermind it was his honor she was defending in the first place, but John, a man among men, held strong. He only wobbled a little bit.

“Harry, think of the neighbors. You can thrash him inside, surely!”

Sherlock’s feet became glued to the ground. He wasn’t going in that house. No sir. That’s how people get murdered. 

“What kind of psychopath shags someone and then breaks up with them in a Dear John letter? You twat!”

“I was trying to keep him alive!”

“AND SHAGGING MADE HIM IMMORTAL, DID IT?”

He cursed metalcore, screamo, death growls, and whatever the hell else enabled the woman with such forceful and unrelenting pipes. John would have been hoarse by now. Still, without her, he wouldn’t have recovered John from the redacted files bin. His memory would have been lost.

He’d never thought of it before, but if _John_ had left _him_ then Mycroft would likely be in the same state, though certainly not as vocal. He would have mailed John across the globe in pieces. Really, he was getting off lucky if a thrashing was the most that Harry did to him.

“Well?” said Harry when she stopped to take a breath. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

Sherlock shook his head. A lame motion, to be sure, but what else was he supposed to do? 

“I was wrong. I hurt John and he’s a saint to take me back,” he said. “Or he would be if saints weren’t fanatical depictions of dead people cast in an exaggerated and usually over flattering light for exploitation by the Catholic church.”

Judging by Harry’s wrinkled and ever reddening forehead, he’d only made things worse. She pushed against John so that the grass peeled up beneath his feet. 

_Phrasing, Holmes. Phrasing._

“I’m sorry, Harry!” 

He held up his hands in surrender and took a step towards her, urging John out of the way, albeit with the greatest of care. It was like trying to rip apart a couple of dueling Komodo dragons.

“You trusted me with the most beloved person in your life and I let you down.”

Harry stilled.

“I don’t deserve his forgiveness, but I do deserve your ire. With time, I hope that I can restore a fraction of your former trust. I will do everything within my power to never again let down John or you, and I have a lifetime ahead of me to prove that.”

“A lifetime sounds awfully optimistic of you,” said Harry, but she wasn’t going for him. She stood with her arms crossed tapping her foot. 

“I know,” he said. “But… I want the chance. I know that the way I handled things was abysmal. I want to help John gain his weight back and help him quit smoking. I want to get better too, for me, but mostly for him if I’m being honest. I never cared much about how long I lived before. I know that sounds bad, but it’s true. I care now because I have someone who makes ordinary life seem not boring, probably because he’s not boring and he has no sense of self-preservation. I want that lifetime, Harry, if only so I can protect John during his.”

“Protect him?” Harry said. “John doesn’t need protecting! Do you know my brother? Do you really understand John at all?”

She swaggered up in his face. She was so tall Harry was on eye level, her emerald eyes a testament to her burning Scottish heritage. 

“John’s the sort to come running at the first sign of trouble. He used to pick fights at school with tossers twice his size about skirmishes that had nothing to do with him if he thought he was taking up for the weaker of the two. He doesn’t need protecting because he _is_ the protector.”

Harry’s knuckles whitened and her fists shook at her sides. 

“You did let me down, but… you also saved his life.”

She looked to John.

“And because of that,” she continued, “I’m willing to give you one more chance. I mean it, Sherlock, _one more chance.”_

She jabbed her finger at his chest.

“If you ever gut John like that again, I will make things very difficult for you, and no deduction, no threat, no ghostly government bureaucrat will make me disappear. Understand?”

Sherlock, thinking he’d passed the worst, released the tension in his shoulders and sighed.

“Crystal. Absolutely crystal.” He smiled weakly at Harry. “So… we good?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” she said, and then she belted him in the gut.

He doubled over wheezing and she jerked him up by the hair.

“We’re good. _Now._ ”

Harry took up his suitcases and started for the house. “Don’t expect me to carry yours, John. He’s a guest.”

“A guest! You just harangued him and jabbed him in the liver!”

“The liver is a weak point, John. Everyone knows that.”

Sherlock, still grimacing and folded, nodded. 

“She’s right,” he rasped. “Due to its large size and position, it is the organ most vulnerable to injury in combat sports. Always good to know.”

“Are you… praising the way she _punched you_?” 

Sherlock swayed, and John caught him in his arms before he could fall over. He carried him bridal style into the house before returning for his own bags. 

When he'd recovered, the Watson siblings gave him the grand tour of the house, which took approximately two point four minutes. The home was small, but a surprising amount of character was contained within the tiny space, from the hideous wood paneling to the yellowing vinyl flooring in the kitchen. 

Baby pictures of John and Harry ran adjacent to the stairs. Harry was a chubby, toothy kid absolutely covered in freckles. She must’ve gotten braces at some point. John was cotton-top with blinding white hair that grew all the way to his shoulders. He had, apparently, also played the donkey in a school rendition of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream._

Sherlock grinned all the way to his ears.

“Don’t,” John whispered when he caught him staring at it. “I’m begging you.”

Sherlock snapped a picture of it with his phone without looking.

“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about.”

“You arse.”

Sherlock looked down the end of his nose, tilting his head towards the picture of John with his fuzzy ears and grey face paint. 

“Really?” he asked. “ _Those_ are the choice of words that _you_ want to go with?”

John’s room smelled stale. The carpet, a sun-faded orange, peeled up in the corners revealing the hardwood, and his tiny twin bed sported Star Wars sheets. Apart from that, it wasn’t unlike the dorm. Tacked vinyls covered the walls and his bookshelves overflowed with DVDs and comics. 

Harry left them alone.

“I know you’re doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Deducing my room. So just go ahead,” John sighed. “Tell me where I hide the porn magazines and keep the beers I don’t want my mum finding already.”

Sherlock immediately walked to the far corner and picked up the one part of the carpet that _looked_ like it was stapled down. It didn’t stand to reason all of them would be turned up except the one closest to John’s closet. He pushed away a loose floorboard and fished out the magazines and an expired bottle of Guinness. 

“Really?” laughed John. “That easy? Christ, if we ever have kids, they won’t stand a chance.”

“Do you want them?” Sherlock asked. 

“Kids? Lord, we’re way too young to think about that,” he lied, and Sherlock knew he was lying. He had all the tells of a _family_ man, however dysfunctional his own might be.

They fell back on the bed. Sherlock looked up at John’s ceiling, covered in glow-in-the-dark stars and concert posters and wristbands organized by color. 

“... This is awkward isn’t it?”

“What? Me being in your room? We live together.”

“Not that, but, you know,” John shrugged. “I know it's old and worn down. Still home, though.”

He put his hands on his stomach and looked at the popcorned ceiling. 

“My home is older than this one,” said Sherlock. “Your house is the 70s. Mine’s more like the 1670s.”

John considered this.

“I never thought about it like that.” He rolled on his side and draped an arm across Sherlock. “So, are you scared?”

He scoffed. “No offense, but I’ve been deducing people like your mum to tears since I was old enough to verbalize. I’m not _scared._ What’s there to be scared of anyway?”

That didn’t stop him from jumping when he heard the van’s brakes squeal in the drive. 

He sat up when John did, watching Cynthia from the window.

He bit his cheek. 

“Into battle,” he said, and his hands trembled, but John stilled them, intertwining their fingers. 

“You’re not going in alone. Mum won’t find out about us for years, and by then, maybe she’ll change. Maybe the world won’t be so hateful.”

Sherlock looked down at him, the shadows of snowflakes casting across his face. 

“Musgrave won’t be like this,” he said. “It’s only her world that’s hateful, not the whole of it.”

John wanted to argue that his mum wasn’t that bad, that she was kind and hardworking and thoughtful, but she was also harsh and dealt in absolutes. Had Harry felt like this in the beginning? Did she still feel like this now? Mum said that God’s love was unconditional, but then why were there so many strings attached to hers?

“We’re together now,” said Sherlock, “and that’s more than I could have hoped for a week ago, so I mean it. I’m not scared.”

John squeezed his hand before letting it go. “Remember your training, Holmes.”

“I couldn’t possibly forget. Harry might want to murder me...”

“...but Mike Stamford would finish the job.”

They met Cynthia at the foot of the stairs. She had dark rolls under her eyes and was dressed in overalls and yellow wellies. She looked older than in her pictures, her sandy, wavy hair escaping it’s tight ponytail and plastering to her sweaty face. 

She took one look at John and said, “I see you’re home. Did you start the laundry?”

She kicked off her wellies by the door and stripped out of her coveralls. She straightened the boots on the muck rack and hung the suspender straps by the hooks just so-so.

“I… No,” said John, squaring his shoulders. 

“Well, go do it now. I know you’re on holiday, but the rest of us don’t get one. While you’re here, you’ll help around the house. Harry and I are too busy to keep it neat for your guest.”

She scarcely looked at John before going to the lime green sink in the kitchen to wash her hands. He mouthed at Sherlock, “ _This is normal for her_ ,” before scuttling off. Sherlock heard him clanking around in the laundry room slamming cabinets. Instead of following him, he went to the kitchen.

“Do you… need help with anything?” he asked.

_Early forties. Insomniac. Problem with prescription sleeping pills, but attempting to quit. Works for an independent company. Taken advantage of by her bosses, but works exceptionally hard, possibly taking on too much in order to prove herself as the only woman in the field. Tremors. Prone to high anxiety, reliant on religion for a semblance of control and order in an otherwise unpredictable life. Twitching chin. Scrubbing at the hands and cuticles indicates ritual-like behavior. OCD as another attempt at control? Too complex an illness. Insufficient data._

She pushed her cuticles back until they bled as she scrubbed. 

“The house needs hoovering.”

“Okay, where do you keep—?”

“And the kitchen needs sweeping, the floors mopped, the bathrooms cleaned, and the sheets need changed and washed, and—”

Mrs. Watson went off on a never-ending list, gripping the counter until she was well on the verge of a manic breakdown, flinging dish towels and kicking at the cabinets. She rested on her elbows and held her face in her hands. 

She sighed. 

“I’m sorry. I am. I know you’re just trying to help, but we don’t have servants who take care of—”

She turned around, but when she did, Sherlock wasn’t there. Instead, she heard the sound of the hoover running upstairs.

“Mum?” John strode into the room. “Where’s Sherlock?”

She looked to the ceiling. The kitchen lights flickered with even tap of the Holmes boy’s feet. It sounded like he was even moving the furniture. 

“He’s… hoovering the upstairs,” said Cynthia. 

John reached into the lower cabinets and took out the duster and furniture polish. 

“Well, I suppose I better go help him.”

John started for the stairs, but Cynthia stopped him. 

“Wait,” she said, grabbing his jumper. She seemed at a loss for words. 

The boys _should_ be helping her. The boys _should_ be pulling their own weight if they’re going to be sleeping and eating and living in her house. It was good for the Holmes boy to clean. He was just a spoiled, posh brat and making her son one too, but … 

“John, I’m glad you’re okay.”

She drew back her hand, expecting that to be the end of it, but John sat the cleaner on the table and pulled out a chair, urging her to sit with him. It irritated her. She didn’t have _time_ to sit around.

“I know you’re busy,” he said. “I want you to know that I appreciate what you’re doing for us.”

“If this is about Conan, you can save your breath. I’m already doing all that I can. It’s not that I don’t want you to have an education, but there comes a time when one has to be practical. Even if Uncle James paid for the whole of your schooling, there would still be university. It would take you years, John.”

“This isn’t about that,” he countered. “I’m covered till the end of the year, and I applied for at least seven scholarships on the way over here. I know they’re competitive, but one of them, the Evelyn Wilde Scholarship? It’s for the children of fallen soldiers, and I meet all of the other qualifications. I might actually stand a chance, and even if I don’t get that one, I’m not giving up.”

He straightened in the kitchen chair, older looking than he had when he left. 

“I’m not, Mum. I _am_ going to be a doctor. I _am_ going to university.”

“John—”

 _“I am,”_ he said. “But that is not what I want to talk about.”

He stared, but she never would look at him, never would uncross her arms. Eventually the hoover stopped running upstairs. Sherlock’s footsteps tracked to the bathroom, the squeak of the rusty cabinet hinges hinting that he was hunting for shower cleaner. 

He must’ve really wanted Cynthia to let John go to Northumberland.

“Uncle James committed war crimes, Mum. I almost died and my best friend, the bloke currently spraying your sinks, saved my life, and instead of being the least bit welcoming, or grateful, or happy, you’re rude. I know you’re overworked, but you’re taking it out on us.”

She scoffed. “Unlike you—”

“I know that it’s not fair. You deserve a break —”

“It isn’t too much to ask of you to —”

“And I don’t mind helping! But you’re not asking. You don’t even seem to care that—”

“I love you! Of course I’m happy that you’re safe! But if you’d left that school when I told you none of this would have happened!”

“I had a target on my back since day one. Blaming Sherlock for that is bullshit and you know it.”

“I’m not blaming anyone! I’m tired, John. Can’t you see that I’m _tired?”_

He paused. 

“Then go lay down,” he said quietly. “We’ll take care of everything.”

“Harry has to go to work.”

“I know,” said John. “I meant Sherlock. He’s not like you think he is. He isn’t looking down on us, Mum. He’s not prejudiced like that. We can make dinner. We can do everything.”

“The neighbors told me you pulled up in a limo. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is? Of course he’s looking down on you, John. You’re nothing but a charity case to him. I’ll bet he thinks he’s saintlike doing manual labor for once in his—”

“THAT’S ENOUGH.”

John slammed his fists on the table. 

Cynthia jolted. Harry snapped back at her all the time, but from John, it was unthinkable.

“I’ll not hear one more word against Sherlock fucking Holmes.”

“John!”

“Listen to me!”

“Don’t I? Don’t I listen when you and Harry play all hours of the bloody night and listen to you when you’re freaking out about nothing of consequence? Don’t I listen to you enough then?”

“No, you don’t!”

“Don’t I provide enough for you? Don’t I give you all that I can?”

“Yes, you do. You work so hard and we _see_ that. We _appreciate_ it, but you don’t talk to us. And every time Harry or I try, we bust out into a fight just like we are now! I’m trying to talk to you, Mum. I’m trying to tell you what's going on with me.”

Cynthia thought back to Mrs. Hudson coming in and chatting about John, saying he’d joined conservatory and that he liked oolong. She never knew that John liked oolong. She didn’t know about his small victories in class or even that he’d joined the rugby team until MI6 came to the door and debriefed her on his life. 

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Alright. So… how do we do this?”

John traced his fingers around the burn marks on the table. “I… don’t know. I guess, I’ll start and then you say what’s going on with you?”

He began by telling her about Jim Moriarty, about how he and a girl from school fell in with Jonathan Small. He spoke about Stephen and Sherlock defusing the bombs and about how Sherlock had taken care of him, leaving out Eurus and how Sherlock didn’t know how to make coffee. He wasn’t giving her any more ammo against him.

“The way you talk about him,” said Cynthia, “you sound like you fancy him.”

“He’s my best mate, _and_ he gave up Christmas with his own family to be here with me. He’s a good person, Mum. He’s even coming to mass with us on Christmas Eve.”

“He is?”

Cynthia perked.

“Yeah, but if you don’t treat him with at least some semblance of respect, I can see him backing out.”

John knew this would get her. Cynthia truly believed that God took attendance. 

“So… that’s what’s up with me,” he shrugged. “You?”

Cynthia slouched in her chair. “Pipes are freezing. _Everywhere._ Good for business, but it wouldn’t happen if people would just let their water run. And they get so angry when you can’t snap your fingers and magically thaw the pipes.” She held her head. “I can’t sleep. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. There are a million things I haven’t done, and before I always had the hope of your father coming home to relieve me, but now…”

She cried. 

John had never seen his mother _cry_ before. He patted her on the shoulder, about as much contact as he figured she would allow. 

Watson’s don’t talk about their feelings.

Watson’s don’t touch. 

How long ago had it been that he’d sat at this table wishing someone would cry first so it’d be okay for him? Had his mum wanted the same thing?

The staple she used for him when he broke was, “Jesus will make it better,” but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Every time he asked for help and she said that, all he wanted to quip was, “I don’t want Jesus. I want my mum. Talk to me. Ask me how _you_ can help. Haven't you ever once thought maybe God sent _you?_ ”

So he did just that.

“How can I help you, Mum? I know I’m not dad. I know I’m only here on holiday. I know I’m not the son that you wanted, but I’m here now, for you. Please tell me what I can do.”

She sniffled and shook her head. 

“There’s nothing to be done about it, John. Your father is in heaven now. This world is not forever.”

He kept patting her. 

“Mum,” he said. “You can’t just work yourself to death looking forward to… well, _death_. That’s not healthy. I’m seeing the school therapist.”

An insanely specialized therapist probably supplied by Mycroft.

“So if your insurance still covers it, why don’t you go see one yourself? You can afford it then.”

“Me?” said Cynthia. “Go to _therapy?”_

He knew it. He always _knew_ she thought there was something wrong with it.

“You said yourself that there’s no shame in it,” said John, “and if it helps you sleep, that’s not a waste of time.”

She’d never go. Not in a million years.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it,” she sighed. 

To hell with it.

John hugged her. 

“Go to sleep, Mum. Everything will be okay by the time that you wake up.”

And for once, she didn’t clear her throat. She didn’t push him away.

His mum hugged him back, and then she went to her room, locking the door behind her.

______________________________________________________________________________

Greg Lestrade’s family lived on the entire top floor of a high-rise flat. His mother’s promotion to Commissioner of Police allowed him several luxuries, Conan being one of them, but what he failed to mention was that the _rest_ of his family lived in the building as well. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft asked, hiding behind Anthea in the doorway of Greg's flat, “it’s been a while since I visited, so correct me if I’m wrong, but France is still _populated,_ isn’t it?”

Greg’s entire family crowded in his home. They hadn’t noticed him yet, but it was only a matter of time. 

“We’re Catholic, Myc. We have a lot of children.”

He hunkered lower. “Sorry, I’ve never been very good with them.”

“Babies?”

A whole _litter_ of them waddled by wearing nothing but diapers.

“No,” shuddered Mycroft. _“People.”_

A silver-haired child tugged on her auntie’s skirt and pointed their way. 

Damn him, he’d forgotten his ball cap. His red hair had given them away.

Blasted silver fox den.

“Grégoire! Greg est à la maison! Tout le monde, Grégoire est rentré de l'école!”

A record skipped on the balcony, probably thrown off track by the stampede. People crowded around, kissing Greg on the cheek and crushing him with hugs. A tanned lady with carefully arranged curls pushed through the throng. She shouted in French until the room silenced. 

_“Gregory, darling, we were so worried you’d been killed! It was a miracle the bombs didn’t go off while you were in the stadium! What are you trying to do? Worry your mother to death? Did I not teach you better? You don’t notice when a bomb is strapped to a man’s chest?”_

She snatched him by the ear.

_“Ouch! Mum! Like you would have noticed either!”_

She pinched him tighter till he grimaced.

_“You aren’t hurt?”_

_“Not a scratch. I swear.”_

_“Are you lying to me?”_

Greg shook his head, swearing on everyone from Joan of Arc to the prime minister.

Satisfied, his mum pulled him into a hug. She froze when she looked over her shoulder at Anthea and Mycroft.

 _“Rude!”_ she smacked Greg in the side of the head. _“Have you brought friends home? Where are your manners? Do you not introduce them? Have you not offered food? Look at this redhead! He’s too skinny!”_

Skinny?

Mycroft had to hold on to Anthea. 

He’d never been so complimented in his life.

Greg sighed and rubbed his welted temple. “These are my friends, Mum,” he said in English. “This is…. Well, um, this is…”

Would it be okay to introduce Mycroft by his real name?

Anthea, sensing Greg’s anxiety, stepped forward and offered her hand.

“Eliza,” she said. “And this is my brother, Dorian.”

“Brother?” said Mrs. Lestrade, looking between Mycroft and Anthea.

“He’s adopted,” she offered. “Gingers need homes too.”

Greg shouldered in. _“Mum, this is my boyfriend and his sister. We went to the dance together?”_

Dorian? Dorian Hardgrave? That Frenchman?

He’d kill Anthea, but no matter.

Mycroft braced for the worst, but then Mrs. Lestrade did something so unprecedented it turned his stomach. 

_“Sacrebleu! A boyfriend?”_ She snagged Mycroft by the shoulders and kissed him on each cheek. 

He shivered, then became as stiff as a board. He could feel the saliva on his face.

Germs. 

God, the germs.

 _“And he speaks fluent French,”_ said Greg, folding his arms and looking downright evil. 

_“French!”_

Greg’s relatives passed Myc around then, shaking his hand, hugging, and kissing him with all the fervor of teen girls meeting the Beatles in 1963. 

He’d never been more mortified.

“Take it in stride, Bro.” Anthea slapped him on the back.

“Bro!”

“Well, I can’t call you _sir._ ” 

“I thought your family didn’t approve of you being gay,” asked Mycroft, trapped in the arms of who he could only assume was Greg’s grandfather. The old geezer had quite the ironclad grip.

“They didn’t,” said Greg. “But they’ve come around.”

“I can see that.”

The Lestrade family had their downfalls. 

They were loving, touchy, loud, French, but Mycroft couldn’t fault them in one area.

Food.

They served him all the pastries they could eat. Cupcakes and confectionaries he didn't even recognize spilling from crystal trays. All he had to suffer was the occasional pinch to the cheek.

_“So handsome!”_

_“What a lovely man, and tall!”_

_“Adopted! What a blessing you must be. And your sister is gorgeous!”_

Somehow Anthea wound up in the middle of the floor. She played the ukulele cross-legged while a gaggle of little girls combed her hair.

The ringleader, a white-headed child in a puffed skirt and pigtails, folded on her legs in front of Anthea and kept time to the music with a hairbrush. “Vos cheveux sont si longs! Tu ressembles a une princesse!”

Anthea paused the song. “I’m sorry,” she said as the children parted her hair for braids. “I don’t speak French.”

“No French!” exclaimed the child. “Then what do you sing?”

“Sing?” asked Anthea. “In English, I suppose, but I’m better in Urdu.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a language,” she said. “You might not like it.”

“Sing! Sing! I want to hear.”

The other little girls cheered until Anthea relented, finally picking out an upbeat melody before going off. The children danced around her with her hair like she was a human maypole, but Anthea didn’t seem to mind.

Greg figured he ought to save Mycroft from whatever relative had him cornered and set off to look for him. When he found the man, he was eating at a champion’s pace, choking down Buche de Noel after profiterole after creme brulee as they were offered to him. 

Greg shooed away his great-grandmother before she could shove an entire platter of truffles in Mycroft’s face. 

_“Arrière grand-mère, that’s enough! I can hear his arteries shutting down one by one!”_

“No, no!” Mycroft corrected, reaching around for the platter. “You can keep them coming, Madame.”

Greg rolled his eyes. _“Dorian,_ ” he stressed. “Great Granny owns the bakery downtown. You can’t possibly eat everything she’ll try to give you. You’ll be sick!”

Great Granny swatted him in the head, a popular pastime among Lestrades, apparently. 

_“It’s Christmas, you heathen! Keep your health-food, exercise nonsense to yourself. You’re bad for business!”_ She offered Mycroft the entire tray before being called away. _“A little fat around the edges never hurt anyone. You should see_ his _baby pictures.”_

When she left, Greg snatched the platter from Mycroft’s greedy hands.

“You were a fat baby, were you?” said Mycroft, attempting to distract him, which worked long enough for him to pop another truffle in his mouth. “Me too. Obese well into my adolescence, regrettably.”

Greg settled on the stool beside him.

“So, still want to marry me? You’d be getting all this.”

Mycroft grunted. “It isn’t so bad.”

“We kiss. A lot.”

“I am aware.”

“And we’re French. Very.”

“Shocking. I never deduced.”

Greg threw up his hands and said to hell with it. 

He popped a bit of croquembouche, the French wedding cake, in his mouth and relaxed against the kitchen island. He’d gained six pounds from Sherlock. Mycroft might as well slap on another five. 

“They’re… pleasant,” said Mycroft. “I hadn’t expected. The way you talked about coming out and about Chloe, I thought they’d care.”

Greg hung his head.

“That was a different time. They all treated me like an elephant in a room. People stopped talking when I was around, wouldn’t look at me, but then one day my Grandfather just exploded, said, 'If it’s a phase, he’s fucking stuck, isn’t he? I don’t know about you cocks, but if my grandson is going to hell, then I’m going with him!' He argued for me, saying it was better to disagree than lose me, and eventually everyone else just… accepted it?”

He shrugged. 

“I like him,” said Mycroft. “Is he Great Granny’s son?”

“Yeah. She was the second one to really accept me. It’s funny, you think the old people would be the hardest won, but they weren’t. Hell, they came around quicker than lots of my younger cousins.”

“Wiser,” Mycroft said, rolling a bit of croquembouche between his fingers. “Can I go with you to visit Chloe on Christmas Eve?”

Greg turned. “You’d do that?”

“Why not? You’ve handled my brother at his worst.”

He bit his lip. “She’s pretty far gone, Myc. You won’t be missing much. I’m actually really scared. What if this time she doesn’t remember me?”

Mycroft took his hand, though his own was a bit sticky. 

“If she doesn’t, then at least she’ll have the company of a loving stranger.”

Greg lifted their hands over his heart. 

“Thanks, Myc. Just… don’t judge her, okay?”

Mycroft smiled, letting go of his hand to take another ball of croquembouche. 

“The only thing I’m judging,” he said, “is your Granny’s baking.”

He ate the croquembouche with a look of rapture, licking his fingers. 

“Lord, you better marry me quick, Gregory. I want this cake at my wedding and I can’t rely on Great Granny to live forever. It is decadent beyond comparison.”

To Greg’s left, a plate shattered. 

The entire room fell silent, even Anthea’s ukulele, and the ruins of creme brulee dishes rolled at Great Granny’s feet.

Mycroft’s face paled. 

“I didn’t mean—”

“Wedding!” Great Granny exclaimed in English, never mind they’d been discussing rushing it before her death. _“My little rabbit is getting married?”_

Mycroft relaxed, but Greg’s heart stopped beating. 

He shot to his feet. “No, Granny! It isn’t like—!”

But it didn’t matter. Not only had he forgotten to address the woman in French in his panic, but the whole flat erupted in applause, even his parents, for Christ’s sake. 

Didn’t they think he was too young? They didn’t even know if Mycroft had a job!

His father slapped him on the back and shook Mycroft’s hand, popping a cigar in his mouth before either of them knew what was happening.

“Sir!” said Anthea, her hair piled in braids like Leia from Empire Strikes Back. “What in God’s name did you say? What’s happened?”

Greg wiggled away long enough to explain. “My entire family thinks we’ve just announced our engagement, that’s what happened!”

A row of aunties took him away again.

“Sir!” shrieked Anthea. 

And she was not a woman prone to shrieking.

“Do you ever listen to a damn word I say?”

“Me!” said Mycroft, stumbling over the cigar in his mouth.

Anthea snatched it and snuffed it out in the nearest ashtray.

“It was an accident!”

“Bleeding likely!”

“It was!”

Before she could strangle him, the uncles and cousins and friends of the Famille Lestrade trapped her in bear hugs, welcoming the assassin to the family with a round of champagne.

She protested loudly that she didn’t drink. Few people understood her, but her mini-friends emptied her flute and carried her a glass of chocolate milk in its place. 

“Mycroft!” Greg called across the room. “What do I do? They’re out of control!”

He didn’t know, but managed to find Great Granny standing on the balcony.

_“Excusez-moi, madame, but seeing as I’m joining the family, would you be so kind as to explain your recipe for croquembouche?”_

Granny gushed and patted his ears.

_“Such a polite young man! Where did our Greg ever find you?”_

_“Oh, you know,”_ Mycroft smiled. _“He walked into a cafe.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are really difficult for me. It's really hard to write any scene involving Cynthia because she is based on someone very close to me who I love. I've never, how do I put this? "Confirmed" anything, but I definitely don't think I'd get a Famille Lestrade sort of welcome at any point. It's easy to write a fantasy family. The real ones are much harder.
> 
> Anyway, the next chapter "Out of the Closet and Into the Woods" will have loads of trigger warnings. It's gonna be painful, and it might take a while, but I'm going to get it.


End file.
